


A Dark Lamp: Mommae

by Dryad



Series: The Shadows; Where Softly Steps the Light [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, India, NC17, The Raj, child endangerment, period typical racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-07-26 21:48:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 59,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7591630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miss Mary Morstan, meet Captain John H. Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Cedars

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't leave enough time for myself to edit this properly. If you see odd fragments or other weirdity, please let me know in the comments!
> 
> ETA: I've seen a couple of big whopper errors that I'm trying to get to, and will hopefully fix SOON. Seriously, I keep finding them and then when I go to edit, I totally lose them again. My apologies.
> 
> Please note there is a [PLAYLIST](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLCKcnrBehc_z29GNgWGSttxC9tKHQtkct) for this story! It is a modern playlist, but doesn't contain too much Bollywood. At least none of it is in my Bollywood playlist, that's all I'm sayin'.
> 
> And a [pinboard](https://www.pinterest.com/hekateris1772/a-lamp-amid-the-darkness/) in which you can see many of the places and fashion referenced in this story. 
> 
> Historians and locals - I did my best. I hope you can forgive my outrageous errors. I couldn't find a lot of information on local slang, so mostly used Hindi instead of Urdu. Hindsight is 20/20. Sorry.
> 
> Towns, old vs modern spelling:  
> Simla - Shimla  
> Cawnpore - Kanpur  
> Oudh - Awadh

Another mild spring night in Palampur. There was a chill in the air and the breeze was gentle and sweet with the scent of pine, the stars above still unclouded, though that would change soon enough. From her seat on the porch swing, Mary could see more carriages rumbling up the drive, stopping for the soldiers at the gate, being swept through with nary a second glance. After such a hard winter it was almost hard to believe that spring could be anything like this. Of course, one could never be sure of the weather in these parts, there could still be a blizzard or heavy snow, fierce winds and the rattle of hail against the shutters.

Mary pushed her toes against the floor, relaxed into the sway of the swing. She readjusted her shawl around her shoulders, perfectly content being outside even though her shawl was only of printed muslin, white on white. She liked the combination, the white and the pale green of her dress. Not her usual colors but Aunt Thomasine was adamant that Mary should be married by the end of the season, a hope of which Mary did not share. After seven seasons it was clear to her, at least, that she was not the marriageable type. She was not pretty enough, not thin enough, not English enough. Cousins Flora and Sophronia were the stars of the evening anyway, there was no reason for her to even be at this party except as filler. The low relation brought out for an evening's entertainment, poor lamb. Mary plucked at the fringe of her shawl for a moment before tucking it under her hip. No use ruining her clothing just because she desperately wanted to be somewhere else.

"Where is she?"

Mary froze as Aunt Thomasine's querulous voice carried through the open window behind her, then she slowly lowered her shawl in the faint hope she wouldn't be noticed.

"Thomasine, you can't make the girl magically appear whenever you want."

"Oh, Frederick, if I don't get rid of her this year her grandfather will never forgive me."

She should move, she should go away and make sure their privacy was unimpeded.

She stayed stock still.

"Thomasine, it's not your duty to provide for my niece."

"If not me, who? Philip wants to wed, and soon. No new wife will tolerate having an old maid in the house. Corporal Creegan, have you seen Mary?"

Mary did not hear the answer, but when Aunt Thomasine spoke again, her voice was filled with frustration.

"Well, were can she have gone? Frederick! Frederick, come here!"

Mary could well imagine Uncle Frederick's expression right now; fond exasperation, annoyed exasperation, hopeful exasperation - that hopefully Mary would be found before _he_ would have to deal with Aunt Thomasine's rages. Mary wished him all the luck in the world, as she certainly had no desire to be found, not by Aunt Thomasine, in any case.

There was a sudden squeal of violins and a long, introductory _paaarp_ of brass, drowning out Uncle Frederick's response. Another dance would unfortunately clear the floor, making it all that much easier for Aunt Thomasine to realize Mary was not actually in the room.

Ballroom was perhaps a misnomer. The Cedars did not have a ballroom proper. Aunt Thomasine made do with clearing out the dining room of its furniture, and playing on the good will of her guests to accept it as suitable for dances. Mary had never heard anyone speak badly of Aunt Thomasine, if anything people clamored to get on the guest list. Nonetheless, she would have been happier to stay at home. Unfortunately Aunt Thomasine was not as accepting as Mary concerning her marriage prospects, so here she was. Again.

"There you are!"

Lost in her reverie, Mary was startled at the apparition in pale pink that appeared abruptly at her side, clutching her arm with both hands. "Hello, Sophronia."

"What are doing out here? It's freezing!" said Sophronia, sitting down and making the swing rock wildly. "Come back inside, there are hoards of dreamy soldiers to look at. My card is already full, can I borrow yours? You don't mind, do you? I know you won't be needing it, and I do so love to dance!"

Sophronia's large blue eyes shone in the light from the window, and Mary ruthlessly repressed any feeling of bitter injustice she had.

"Of course," she said, reaching up to give Sophronia's hand a squeeze. It was not Sophronia's fault that she was born beautiful, and her five thousand a year certainly did not hurt. For the millionth time, Mary supposed she ought to consider herself lucky, to have grown up with ladies such as Sophronia and her sister. Mary might not be marriageable to an Englishman, but being in such esteemed and wealthy company would only raise her estimation in the eyes of others.

She hoped for that much, at least.

Entering the house again was like walking into the kitchen in the height of summer; the air was hot and heavy with moisture. Even though she was used to it, Mary felt the fresh bloom of perspiration on her brow and wondered if there was any possible way she could escape back to the veranda without being seen. She would get herself a glass of punch first, however. Fishing her card out of her reticule, she handed it to Sophronia and wished her luck, received the happy kiss on the cheek with aplomb. With that small task accomplished, she made her way to the sideboard and took a glass of punch, ate cheese and cracker and chutney, a few slices of fruit, a small slice of cake.

Mary handed her plate to one of the servants and turned without looking, immediately stopping short as she bumped into someone in a scarlet dress uniform. "Oh! I'm so sorry, please to beg your pardon," she stammered, immediately aware of sounding like her ayah with her broken, formal English. Sure her cheeks were an even brighter red from embarrassment, Mary ducked her head and went to step around the gentleman. "I'm sorry, excuse me."

"No, _I'm_ sorry," said the soldier - a Captain, by his insignia. "Please, allow me."

He stepped to one side - Mary wasn't sure if he was mocking her, or being utterly polite. She glanced up at him - he was handsome, with very dark blue eyes and a kind, understanding smile. She couldn't help but smile a little back at him.

"You seem in a hurry, is there any place I can escort you?" he asked, still smiling, eyebrows uplifted in a most distracting manner.

"Um - " she began, and then Uncle Frederick was clapping the Captain on the shoulder.

"Ah, Mary! I see you've met our good Captain Watson, from the 106th. Miss Mary Morstan, Captain John Watson, recently over from Lucknow. How are you finding our little shindig this evening?"

Captain Watson bowed a little, flicked a glance at Mary before speaking Uncle Frederick. "Very pleasant now that I've had the honor of making Miss Morstan's acquaintance."

"I _am_ glad of that!" boomed Uncle Frederick, drawing the attention of half the room.

"We do worry about you," he half-whispered in such a jovial, caring manner, that Mary almost completely forgave him for saying such in front of Captain Watson.

"Watson!"

The shout couldn't be ignored, indeed, Captain Watson promptly bowed and went to meet his fate, greeting Colonel Taylor with easy informality.

Uncle Frederick leaned close to Mary and loudly whispered, "He would be perfect for Flora if he weren't quite so short. But he is very brave, very brave, my dear. I could regale you with tales that would make your hair stand on end, but suffice to say he is a man of great heart. Now, if you will excuse me, I must have a word with General Berry."

The rest of the evening continued in much the same vein. Every time Mary attempted to take her place on the porch, another cousin or near relation or some hanger-on waylaid her, to the point where she eventually gave up and sat with the great dowager ladies, just to hear them comment about everyone and every thing. She learned that Cora Sheldrake had been injudicious with her letters to Allen Barksdale, and Hector Williams had supposedly gotten another girl in trouble. The Montgomery sisters could not, of course, do any wrong. Flora's dress was the height of class, even if the soft blue did her pale skin no favours, and wasn't it a wonder how she did not darken under this country's hot sun? Sophronia, too, was ripe for the plucking. Woe betide any man who didn't see the thorns amongst the roses, however. Mary didn't wait to hear her own critique, practically leaping up to intercept Philip as he headed towards the hallway.

"Hello there, dearest cousin," he said, offering his arm.

She took it gladly, grateful to have someone speak for her for the next few minutes. She was happy to have an escort down the hall and finally outside. The air had cooled enough to feel chilly after the inside. "I want to go home," she said, almost under her breath.

Philip patted the back if her hand. "I'm on my way to Simla - "

"At this time of the night? That's outrageous!" she said, well put out that she wouldn't be seeing her favorite cousin again for months, perhaps even years if he was shipped to parts elsewhere.

"All part of a soldier's life, my dear. Now, come see me off or I shall be cross with you for at least an hour."

Mary made sure to kiss his cheek and squeeze his hand before he mounted up, much to the amusement of the men he was traveling with. It seemed to her, though, that it was all in good fun and she hadn't necessarily spoiled his ride back to Simla, because for all of her observance of military men, she found she could never tell who might be offended by her mere presence. Although admittedly, that usually only occurred in the presence of their wives.

At the earliest possibly opportunity, Mary excused herself to return to her own room to rest and recuperate and think of a strategy to keep Aunt Thomasine from ever demanding she attend one of these parties again. She could think of one reason...and shied away from it a moment later. She should concentrate on the _here_ and _now_ , not the _if_ and _when_.

With Philip gone, the ensuing week at The Cedars went back to its normal state of affairs; slow mornings filled with correspondence and visits from various ladies and their children, long afternoons with little to do to pass the time apart from dressing to visit ladies at their houses or meet at the Officer's Club and play interminable games of Whist and Bezique, pacheesi and cribbage and, of course, solitaire. If the afternoon was cool enough, badminton would be approached, or bowls, walking and riding. At the Club, Mary was content to sit back and read, although she was frequently brought to fill the gap, to be the unattached lady for any free gentleman who sought such gentle company as she could provide.

The only break in the monotony came in the form of an invitation from Zainab Begum, to take tea. Despite all of their protestations, Aunt Thomasine insisted that Flora and Sophronia join her and Mary in their bimonthly visit to the local royalty. Aunt Thomasine had never met Shah Sikander, and always sniffed at the idea. Bad enough she had to go to the zenanah. Purdah, ridiculous! No woman should be kept in such a manner against her will!

Privately, Mary though Aunt Thomasine was overstating her point. It wasn't as if the Begum never spent time in male company, she wasn't hidden away in some dank, underground cell, never seeing the light of sun or moon. Nevertheless, Mary held her tongue.

The Begum's residence overlooked the tea gardens to the east. It was a grand building to look upon, a small fort in its own right. Though Mary had never been further within than two rooms, she could only imagine the rest of the residence was equally beautiful. She was reminded of Babaji's home, though she remembered very little of its interior. Mostly dark wood, and the scent of spicy-sweet incense, of brilliant colors in the rugs and cushions, of the heavy, pervasive silence. From afar, she loved the idea of seeing the Begum. In person, she dreaded each and every visit even though she felt comfortable inside the zenanah itself.

They rode to the Begum's residence, halfway there the weather turning to a pouring, pounding rain that had them arriving utterly drenched from head to foot. They were taken from the courtyard to a private room, where their soaked clothing was taken away, and traditional clothing brought in. Mary happily changed into the clothes of her childhood, the baggy shalwar trousers and the long, loosely fitted khameez. They were so pretty, in soft mango with gold thread medallions along the hems.

"I won't wear this!" protested Flora, stomping her foot.

"You can and you will," answered Aunt Thomasine, holding out a dhathu with an expression of distaste. "Your clothes need to be dried and you will _not_ embarrass me by refusing to see the Begum. Think about what this will do to your reputation, and in turn, what happens to us when the Begum declares we were rude to her! Think on what your father will say! Those handsome young beaux of yours will not be pleased to know how rude you were to the local Royalty!"

It was not clothing suitable for stays and petticoats, but Mary was the only one who removed her petticoats and loosened her stays. She was so very pleased, and wished she had a mirror with which to see what she looked like. Oddly, her shalwar khameez was the brightest of the lot. Aunt Thomasine was in dark gray, while Sophronia wore maroon and Flora, navy. They all three looked ill at ease, which Mary could not understand; in her opinion it would have been unspeakably awful to appear before the Begum stinking of wool and rain. Far better to be clean and dry, even in borrowed clothing, than anything else.

They were brought to their usual room, a small salon off the main corridor. It was a pleasant room with a single aspect overlooking the valley below, open to the weather despite the moist breeze blowing in. Braziers had been lit, so the room was comfortable enough to sit in. Mary rather liked the room, with its white walls and dark wood, wall hangings of Hindoo gods and goddesses, pretty rugs on the floor and mirrored cushions in jewel-like colors on the couches and divans.

They took their usual seats, all four of them on one divan, facing a smaller, heavily carved wooden sofa topped with bright red cushions. No sooner had they sat down when the double doors to their left opened and the Begum swept in, followed by her daughters and several other women, all dressed in swathes of silk and cotton and gold, faded mehndi designs on their hands and feet from a wedding, or perhaps to celebrate a birth.

Zainab Begum was one of those women who never appeared to age. In all the years Mary had been coming to see her with Aunt Thomasine, the Begum's face remained unlined and her figure slim. Her children were younger than Mary, and according to rumour, they were to be married off within the next year or so. The Begum was sloe-eyed and dark skinned and to Mary's eyes, quite beautiful.

The Begum sat down, carefully lifting her feet onto the sofa cushions, reclining at her ease. With every movement she made, something on her person jingled and rang and shone with soft gold glints. Looking calmly at Mary, the Begum said, _"Good morning to you."_

 _"Good morning,"_ answered Mary, bowing a little. _"Lady Glendenning is grateful you have time to receive us once more."_

Servants silently appeared with a tea tray, bowls of sweetened nutmeats and mix of fruit and salted nuts, a little plate of what looked like Turkish Delight. Mary waited until the tea was served, taking her cup gratefully. Even with the braziers flickering in the corners of the room, she was still damp, and sitting on the end of the divan closest to the window was not helping. She blew on her tea before taking a sip. Oh, it was lovely! Hot, sweet, and spicy - she could drink gallons of it a day if Aunt Thomasine allowed it in the house.

 _"You are well?"_ asked the Begum, reaching for a powdered cube of Turkish Delight, gold bangles sliding down from nearly her elbow to her wrist.

_"Yes, Begum. I hope the winter has treated you well?"_

"Tell her we are happy to see she is healthy," said Aunt Thomasine, stirring sugar into her already sweetened cup of tea.

Mary glanced at the table instead of at her companions. She had once met with the Begum by herself, when Aunt Thomasine and Sophronia had been ill, and Flora was in England at her school. To her very great surprise, the Begum had greeted her in halting, stilted English, before they briefly spoke in Hindi. The meeting had been short, and Mary had chosen not to tell Aunt Thomasine of the odd turn of events. The Begum had never spoken to her in English again, and Mary assumed it had been an experiment, a confidence for her and her alone. It seemed to her the Begum found her curious, as if she was the great experiment. Maybe she was.

They sat in awkward silence, drinking their tea and watching the Begum eat half the plate of Turkish Delight. Occasionally Aunt Thomasine would remark upon the weather, Mary would translate, the Begum would nod gravely, Mary would look at Aunt Thomasine to convey the Begum's appreciation for her observation. It was all very mundane, at least until the Begum looked at Mary.

_"Be careful, little bird."_

Mary blinked. "Begum?"

The Begum did not reply. Finally the Begum got to her feet, as did her daughters and waiting ladies. Mary quickly followed suit along with Aunt Thomasine and, more slowly, Flora and Sophronia. The Begum looked over all them with a hint of a smirk, her gaze lingering on Mary, before leaving the room in a swirl of silk and the lingering scent of rose attar.

Aunt Thomasine did not hesitate to leave as soon as the doors shut behind the Begum. "Oh thank g-d, now we can get out of this ridiculous bed clothing they wear!"

"Yes," said Flora, clutching the dhathu around herself, drawing it tight across her back. "I feel positively naked!"

"I'll not have that kind of talk here, Flora. You never know how many of these people might know a bit of English."

"I doubt there's one, never mind two," said Sophronia, her voice muffled as she took her khameeze off. "You know what they're like, no better than children."

For her part, Mary kept silent. Though she knew they were referring to the servants and not herself, somehow that made it all the worse. It was as if she wasn't there, as if her opinions on the subject not only did not matter, but were of no importance in the first place. If they had asked, she could have told them that many of the servants understood exactly what they were about, and what hidden secrets they had, why, what for, and from whom. If they asked, she could tell them who was favored among the servants, and whom they were loyal to, the pride they took in their position and, in actuality, how many of them understood rather a lot of English, even if they didn't speak it in front of their masters.

The real question was, what had the Begum meant?

 


	2. Chapter 2

And so it went, until one afternoon, Mary and cousin Lettice rode to Lady Fraser's estate, taking exercise on a hot day, because Letty was frequently kind to her, and spoke to her of things other than household management and what the gossip was the days the packets came in.

It wasn't that Mary didn't like horses, she did. She didn't like riding sidesaddle, and hunting was out of the question. But she was comfortable enough to accompany Letty to do some sightseeing, perhaps visit one of the temples. Besides, if she didn't get out of the house she might go mad.

The road was windy and twisty and in dry weather, good for a gallop where it was flat. It went through town and past Mr. Simpson's tea estate, up into the small hills of the Dhauladar. At times the road was wide enough for two to ride abreast, though not for the kind of coaches where footmen clung on to either side, as she had seen in illustrations.

There were shouts behind them, along with the rattle of a vehicle at speed.

Letty turned her horse to see what was happening, then began whipping it to the ditch with her short crop. "Mary, come on, quick!"

They were passed by an unusually large, heavily laden horse-drawn palkee-gharry going at a violent pace.

As the driver was shouting and snapping his whip in a most unpleasant manner, Mary loosened the rein and kicked her horse too, but instead of following Letty's beast, her mare threw her head up, half-reared while shying to one side. Unfortunately that spooked the palkee-gharry horses even more, and they darted to one side, leading the palkee-gharry off the road, where it tilted and fell on its side with a resounding crash. The occupants within began to scream, as did the poor unfortunates who had been on the side of the road, waiting for the vehicle to pass by, only to find themselves underneath it a moment later.

Then the world went black.

Mary gasped and opened her eyes, knocking away whatever it was that smelled so foul next to her nose. "What - ?"

"Oh, g-d be praised, are you all right?"

Mary blinked, shook her head a little to make Letty into one person again. Letty was leaning over her - no, her head was in Letty's lap. She pushed herself up with her hands, sat still until the vertigo passed. "What happened? Where's my horse?"

"There wasn't enough room for you and the palkee-gharry in the track. Your horse was backing up instead of coming towards me, and then she changed her mind as the coach was passing and I think that woman is dead?" said Letty, her voice cracking as she finished.

Mary slowly got to her feet, Letty steadying her all the way. Now that she was upright she could see that the coach had gone off the track.

"Oh no!" said Letty, hands covering her mouth. "Oh, what shall we do! Mary! Oh, is there no one around who can get the guard?"

For a moment Mary stood equally still, as shocked as Letty. The squealing of the horses, trapped in their harness, brought her to full wakefulness. Passersby were getting to them to their feet as she watched, trying to get them to stand still while the traces were undone. Within minutes they were unhitched, and then a young man swung on the back of one of the palkee-gharry's horses, and raced off down the road without a saddle. Mary sincerely hoped he was going to the garrison to get a doctor and not just stealing a horse.

"Oh my g-d Mary, I can't stand it, it's going to drive me mad!" cried Letty, her hands now over her ears.

"Letty, you have to go get help."

Letty shook her head. "I can't leave you alone! What if something happens?"

Mary released the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding, and walked Letty down the road a little ways. "Stop it, just stop it! If you're not leaving then I want you to stay here and wave down any pal that might be coming along. If you see a soldier, wave him down as well. Look, see? They're righting that coach right now and oh, look who's getting out, it's Mrs. Willis and her mother, Mrs. Ambrose! If I bring them to you, can you take care of them?"

Letty sniffled and nodded, her eyes red-rimmed, and she hadn't even done anything except for witness the whole thing. Mary managed not to frown, but it was close. "All right, you stay right here."

Hurrying over to the side of the road, where she found Mrs. Willis and Mrs. Ambrose very shaken, but otherwise all right. The other inhabitants of the palkee-gharry; a Mr. Delahyde and Mr. Carey, were not so lucky. Mr. Delahyde had a broken arm, which Mary deftly set with his cane and his scarf. It was not the best splint in the world, but it would do for the moment. Mr. Carey was an older gentleman and unconscious,a mark against his temple rapidly bruising purple, the rest of his face beginning to puff up as well. Mary left Mr. Delahyde to Letty, making sure Letty understood she was not to let go of his wrist under any circumstances. Not even if he needed to duck into the bushes for a moment of privacy.

Mary made sure Mrs. Willis and Miss Ambrose were healthy before returning to the palkee-gharry. A family had been scrambling to get out of the it's way when it overturned, and much to her horror she found even greater injuries amongst them. A woman was dead, her head hidden underneath a trunk. The amount of blood surrounding her, and the stillness with which she lay on the ground proof of her demise. Next to her knee lay two very young babies still swaddled in a pink and yellow patterned cloth. Both were crying, thin little wails that tore at Mary's heart. Dashing forward without regard for her shoes or dress, she slid into the ditch and collected them both, holding them close to her breast.

"You're all right, my darlings, I've got you, Mary's got you," she murmured, rubbing their knobbly little backs as much as she could with one hand. She turned around to find people lining up on the road, chatting and gesturing at her. Two men climbed into the ditch with her and either offered to take the babies or help her out, she wasn't sure. All she knew was that she wasn't about to let them go. Nodding at the nearest one, she started up the steep slope, realizing immediately after her first step that she was going to trip on the hem of her dress. The other man grinned obsequiously, ducking his head in the way Indian men did when they thought she was fully English, and crept nearer to twitch up the edge of her skirt.

"Dhanyavaad," she said gratefully, accepting his steady hand on her back while picking her way back up to the road.

The babies settled at the sound of her voice, and both fell asleep as she walked back to the English travelers.

A native man in Western dress trotted up to Mary as she stood there, rocking from foot to foot.

"Memsahib miss," he said, doffing his hat even though sweat was pouring down his face. "Memsahib miss, I am Sriram. Are you well?"

Mary nodded, relieved that someone would come take charge. "Yes, I'm fine. Is there another coach coming? These people are hurt - "

"Memsahib miss, I sent a boy as soon as news reached me."

"Is there someone coming?" asked Mr. Delahyde querulously.

"Yes, " answered Mary loudly, for Mr. Delahyde was partially deaf. One baby's face screwed up, then relaxed again. A horrible thing, to be so suddenly motherless - Mary looked back at the coach, then said to Sriram, "Can you ask them who the father of the child is? The mother's dead, and these two should go to family if there is any."

Sriram shook his head. "The mother was a randii."

Mary looked away. "I'm familiar with the term," she said, quit offended he felt free to use it in her presence. Of course she had heard worse when people thought she wouldn't overhear, but that wasn't the point, was it? For a split second she thought about asking him if that was how he knew the woman, then dismissed it. That kind of talk would do her no favors, and she needed his help to get everyone safely back home. "How long do you think it will be?"

He shrugged.

Time for diplomacy. "You know of the mother, has she any family?"

He shrugged again.

Shaking her head, Mary moved closer to Miss Ambrose. "Will you take one of the children?"

Miss Ambrose shook her head. "Oh I couldn't. They're so dirty!"

"I see," said Mary, immediately revising her opinion of Miss Ambrose, whom she had met at the Club only the previous week, from pleasant to petulant and weak. There was nothing for it but to wait. There was always Sriram to talk to, but quite frankly she didn't want to talk to him, either. It was clear that there was only one place for the babies if she couldn't find their proper family, and that would be with Sister Simpson at the orphanage. Perhaps Uncle Frederick knew someone who could help her with them. He liked to indulge her, a fact she tried not to abuse too often. This would be pushing it, but she thought it might do.

By the time a new palkee-gharry arrived, along with Lieutenant Ransom, Mary was exhausted from the stress of what had happened. She had tried to move everyone to what shade existed, but the nearest trees had been cut down when the road had been widened only a few years earlier. Mr. Delahyde was simply in too much pain, and Mrs. Willis refused to move any place where there might be snakes. Mary forebore telling her that it was far more like for snakes to be in the high grasses than under tree canopy. Mr. Carey was still sleeping, and she feared for his future.

It was hot. Insects sang their songs while the grass rippled in the occasional breeze.

Lieutenant Ransom's fine horse had white lather on its neck, mouthing the bridle with a nervous intensity that saddened Mary. Philip was a fine horseman and would have told off Lt. Ransom if he'd seen what the man was doing to his horse. But then, Lieutenant Ransom fancied himself a dandy and was prone to outrageous gestures to get attention. In fact, Mary had heard it was not only female attention he desired.

"Miss Morstan!" he shouted, swinging down from the saddle as if he were a knight in shining armor. "Are you well?"

"Yes, thank you," she said, even though her arms were aching from holding the babies.

"Let me put you on my horse," he said, pulling on the poor beast's bridle.

"That's quite all right. I'm just about to get aboard," she answered, tilting her head towards the new coach.

He eyed the babies with distaste. "You'll want to leave those two behind."

"They're going to the orphanage."

"Mmm. Well, let's get you on that palkee-gharry."

G-d, he was insufferable! What he possibly saw in her, she didn't know. Better he chase after Flora, or even Sophronia, rather than herself. In any case, she was glad to be safely inside, even though it was crowded. She sat opposite Mrs. Willis and her mother and Letty, who was supporting Mr. Delahyde's broken arm. Mr. Carey had already been stretchered away. Though she hoped he would become well again, she doubted he would even wake up. Still, she was beyond grateful for the two women who had stopped on their way to the market, to nurse both babies. Thinking back on it, Mary nearly shed a tear at their generosity. She wished she at least knew their names, but shrouded as they were, neither one had deigned to answer any questions in her awkward Urdu. Perhaps she had simply said the wrong thing.

By the time they reached Palampur, Mary was ready to drop. The babies had woken up again and set a frazzle on everyone's nerves, not least among them herself. When the palkee-gharry stopped in front of the orphanage, it was a relief to get out with the children and stop in Sister Simpson's office to take advantage of a cool, wet cloth and the breeze coming from the fan overhead. Thank g-d Sister Simpson was not so religious as to forego a punkah-wallah in mountainous Palampur.

Mary handed off the babies with no little apprehension. The ayah gave her a smile as she took each child, heading down the corridor and around the corner without a second glance back at Mary.

"Would you like to name them?" asked Sister Simpson with a gentle smile. She was a diminutive woman, shorter even than Mary, and possibly the kindest woman Mary had ever met.

"Oh, can I? I don't even know what they are!"

"Well, pick two names for each."

Mary shook her head, unable to comprehend what was being asked of her for a long moment. "W-well," she stuttered. "I was going to see if I could find their family. They must have one locally."

"Not necessarily. There's trouble out of Lahore - surely you've seen more people on the road these days?"

"To be honest, I hadn't noticed."

Sister Simpson looked at Mary pityingly. She clasped her hands together. "Nevermind. What names would you like? Remember, two of each."

Mary was tired, and thus picked the first names that came to her. "Helen and Ajax, Penelope and...and...Angus," And then, at Sister Simpson's skeptical glance, "Oh, yes, I know, um, Penelope and Philip."

"They'll do. I'll keep you apprised of what what we find. Now, off you go home. I'm sure your Aunt and Uncle are concerned."

A nice thought, but Mary rather thought the reverse to be true. They did not like how frequently she went to the orphanage, nor her desire to teach the unfortunates their letters and numbers. They would prefer her to remain in the company of her class; an idea Mary increasingly scorned. Their ability to forget her origins when they wanted to were rather extraordinary. All she had to do was walk into a room and feel the judgment of her supposed peers. Perhaps if she had been brought up with her grandmother's family instead...but they had not wanted her either, as they had not wanted her father.

Nonetheless, she headed back home, alone. Through some magic, neither her Aunt nor her Uncle were home, leaving Mary to bathe and rest in peace. Which also meant she had an opportunity that rarely arose these days. She dressed in her favorite day gown, which was white with embroidered elephants in red on the bodice, put on her house slippers and took the walk to the kitchen. Noor was cutting onions when Mary entered, and wiped streaming eyes. "Marichi!"

"Noor, is it too late to get something to eat?" asked Mary in Urdu, wringing her hands and hoping against hope there was a little plain rice left over from breakfast. Now that she could smell the spices, she was starving.

"Of course not! Come, sit," Noor pushed a stool towards Mary with her foot. "I have hot pickle, I have egg biryani and roti."

"Yes, please," said Mary, obediently sitting and watching Noor cook. She loved watching Noor cook. Noor was not the first cook of the household, but she was Mary's favorite. Maybe because Mary was her favorite. They were of an age, more or less, and Noor enjoyed feeding Mary, though Mary didn't know why. Their previous cook, the one who before she had died of fever had made clear her disapproval of Mary, had fed her the scraps. The food had not suited Mary, nor was it enough, and she had gone hungry for many months until Noor's arrival.

Noor was not her mother, but Mary liked to think that Noor could have been her mother, in other circumstances. She was kind, and pretty, and from the start had treated Mary like a little sister instead of the distant, unwanted relation she actually was. Soon enough a plate of food was handed to Mary, and she dug in with enthusiasm, picking out the cardamom pods and whole cloves and peppercorns. When she was done, a cup of fennel tea magically appeared on the table, and Mary drank that, too. Relaxed and happily full, Mary was about to ask Noor if she knew of any woman with nearly newborn twins when the bell jangled in the arch. They looked at one another in alarm, and then Mary was up, running as quickly and silently as she could back to the house, through the door and down the hall, slipping into the library, from there Uncle Frederick's study, and then into the back of the main hallway. She stopped and smoothed her clothing, waiting until she had caught her breath - waiting until her stomach settled, in all honesty - and then walking out to greet her Aunt and Uncle as if nothing of importance had happened that day.

"Ah, there you are!" cried Uncle Frederick, swooping down on Mary as was his manner. He kissed her on both cheeks, his eyes sparkling with news he was clearly desperate to import. "I have good news! Kenneth Harper has asked for Sophronia's hand in marriage!"

"Oh," said Mary, wondering what she was supposed to say. She and Flora and Sophronia had discussed Sophronia's suitors many a time, and Kenneth's name had not once come up. "Is she pleased?"

"We'll find out tonight when I tell her. Thomasine," he said, turning around to gesture at Aunt Thomasine, who was just entering the foyer. "was equally surprised."

Mary just bet she was.

"I wasn't," Major Sholto trundled in, followed by Captain Watson and two other soldiers whom Mary didn't know. "She's all his lordship has been talking about for weeks! Isn't that right, Watson?"

"Sir," said Captain Watson, bowing slightly in Mary's direction. "He is absolutely smitten."

"All of her suitors are," declared Aunt Thomasine, removing her hat and veil and handing them to the servant waiting for them. "Now Mary, come attend to me while the gentlemen get settled."

"Yes, Aunt Thomasine," Mary said demurely, aware of Captain Watson's gaze on her person as she dutifully followed her Aunt up the stairs. G-d willing, her dress was free of grains of biryani and smears of egg.

Aunt Thomasine's bedroom was fussy in the way that Mary's was not. There were hat stands and somewhat moth-eaten velvet drapery, an amount of stuffed chairs that Mary could see no reason to have, potted palms and four armoires filled with clothing, plus separate trunks for shoes. There was a vanity with an attached mirror, a wall length mirror (actually, Mary did envy her that), and bed big enough for three. Worst of all was the smell; slightly musty underneath the overwhelming scent of jasmine. Aunt Thomasine had fresh flowers put in her room every week, as well as wearing it as a perfume. And a soap.

"Tell me what you really think," Aunt Thomasine went straight to the vanity and sat down, promptly looking at her face this way and that in the mirror. "Has Sophronia even said his name out loud?"

Mary took a seat on a nearby chair, just outside of striking distance. Aunt Thomasine wasn't normally prone to throwing things, but when it did happen, Sophronia was usually the cause. "No. Well, she has, but just in passing. I am...surprised at Lord Harper's decision?"

Aunt Thomasine eyed Mary sharply in the mirror. "Yes, especially since he's never mentioned his intentions to me. I am the girl's mother, I should be the first to know these things."

"Yes, Aunt Thomasine."

"And what about Flora. Is she going to marry someone I don't know about, too?"

"No, Aunt Thomasine."

Aunt Thomasine fiddled with her hair, then stood and moved to the bed. She began unbuttoning her cuffs. "Kenneth Harper may be a Lord, but he has only five thousand a year and few prospects, no matter what he says. Mary, hurry up."

"Yes, Aunt Thomasine," Mary hurried over to help Aunt Thomasine out of her walking dress and into something more appropriate for the the rest of the afternoon. Once again she wished she knew Radha's disappearing trick; the servant was always conveniently absent when Aunt Thomasine was in a mood.

"At least I'll have you here once the girls are gone and in their own households. No, not that one, the apricot."

Mary retrieved the apricot dress and tried to help Aunt Thomasine do the buttons and the ties, but was rebuffed with a sharp wave of one hand. She listened to Aunt Thomasine prattle on, as she did every few weeks during the Season. For her part, Mary highly doubted Sophronia would marry Lord Harper. For one, Mary had seen Lord Harper and remained unimpressed. He had a look about him, no, it was the way he looked down his nose at everyone, which was quite a feat considering he was of average height. Anyway, Sophronia would have - Mary blinked. Sophronia would have to sneak away to have met Lord Harper without anyone knowing. She would have to go some place where it wouldn't be unusual to see unmarried English men and women mixing. They would have to be in public most times...in short, they could only have kept meeting at the Officer's Club.

"Well? Mary? Mary!"

"Yes, ma'am," she said without thinking.

Aunt Thomasine stared at her, shaking her head. "I don't know what's gotten in to you, oh no, I do know, it's this damned news of Sophronia's that's made your mind wander. Don't you go and get any ideas yourself, young lady. I'll not marry you off to some fancyman for the sake of a few shiny buttons."

It was a ridiculous thing to say, and Mary gave it all the consideration it deserved. Besides, she wasn't going to give Aunt Thomasine the satisfaction by becoming irritated. She would let her comments roll off her back like a drop of water off of a flower.

Once Aunt Thomasine was dressed for the afternoon, they returned downstairs. Uncle Frederick had brought everyone to the salon, which was really an orangery with lots of furniture. Or so Mary understood from the books on English architecture she had read. The gentlemen new to her were Lieutenant Amberley and Major Newton, and they were deep in conversation with Uncle Frederick about matters military, so Mary took herself to the recently re-tuned upright piano just outside the orangery to play a few notes. She would play it while it was still somewhat in tune. The doors were open to the hallway, the music would drift in without her needing to have an audience.

She found one, anyway.

Within a few minutes Captain Watson drifted over, port in hand. Mary flashed him a quick smile and then returned to her sheet of music. She did not consider herself an accomplished player by any means, yet she had been told she was good enough not to exasperate anyone. She came to a somewhat ragged stop and folded her hands in her lap.

"Please, don't let me stop you," said Captain Watson, leaning against the top of the piano.

"She's not exactly in tune," answered Mary, closing the top over the keyboard. "And I am not the best player, even if it were in tune."

"What was it you were playing?"

Mary glanced at her hands. "Nothing in particular."

"It sounded good to me."

"I think you've been here for far too long if that's the case," she said, getting to her feet. She gestured toward the orangery. "Have you been in India long?"

Leaving his port on top of the piano, he clasped his hands behind his back and slowly walked at her side. "For a little over a year already, unbelievably. I've traveled all around the country at this point. It's a marvelous place."

"Oh, do you think so?" asked Mary, surprised and unexpectedly pleased.

"It's a magical place, yes," he said, returning her smile. "So much color and wonder. Terrible poverty as well, but perhaps easier to take than what you'll see in London on any given day."

Mary stopped, raised a hand in disbelief. "Truly?"

Captain Watson stopped as well, one eyebrow quirked. "Truly. Have you not been?"

"No...no. I doubt very much I shall ever see England, but I have read many books about England, and France, too. I should like to visit there, at least once in my lifetime."

"Where there's a will, there's a way."

"Gentlemen," announced Aunt Thomasine, graciously nodding at Lieutenant Amberley as he slid a chair out from the table for her. "It's time for Mah Jong. Now, who wants to play South against my North?"

Mary bowed slightly to Captain Watson's wry look, then took a seat near the lemon tree. Her book was still on the table, though she was not sure she was capable of reading it at the moment. She picked it up anyway, just to have something to do with her hands. A moment later Uncle Frederick took the other chair with a satisfied grunt.

"Damned toe is acting up on me again," he grumbled.

"Those boots are not helping," she chided.

"No, but the thought of breaking in another pair, or worse, wearing slippers, fills my mind with dis-ease," he said. He flicked one finger at the Mah Jong players. "What think you of Major Newton?"

Mary took him in. He was handsome enough, with a strong chin and thick brown eyebrows. His wore his uniform well, and his boots were still shiny. "He comports himself well."

"I was thinking he might be a suitable match for Flora."

"Oh...I suppose," Mary was well versed in keeping her face still and pleasant, even though Uncle Frederick's announcement was nigh on ridiculous. One daughter he was already happy to see the back of, simply because he liked the man who had asked him for her hand, and now to get rid of the other, for much the same reason? Mary was both fiercely glad he did not think of her that way, and desperately sad for the same.

Two long games of Mah Jong later, with no call for her services beyond those the servant could and did do, Mary slipped out of the orangery and back to her room with little notice.

Over the next few days, Mary saw little of the rest of the household. There was an air of anticipation in the house, though no one said anything to her. The staff was fractious, prone to dropping things, while Aunt Thomasine snapped at everyone and Uncle Frederick took to staying at the Club as much as possible. Flora was staying with her friend, Miss Columbia Deverry, while Sophronia was absent altogether. Even Cousin Lettice had left for Delhi with the rest of her family to visit her father, who had fallen ill and was not expected to recover. Letty's mother was the nervous sort who could not bear to be parted from her husband if she could help it.

In short, Mary found herself with a great deal of free time as no one wanted for her presence. She visited Sister Simpson only to discover the babies unclaimed. Two girls, as it turned out, Helen and Penelope, to be raised in the orphanage. Having already been prepared for such, Mary gave Sister Simpson what few coins she had been given through the years. A pittance, to pay for the raising of two girls. At least they would be educated and grow up in a healthy environment.

From there, she walked to the local temple, for no special reason. She liked going to the temples when she had the opportunity. They were lively yet peaceful places, the scent of incense uplifting, the little lamps burning their perfumed oil and casting an ambiance that Mary adored. She always felt better, going to a temple.

Under the porch roof, Mary paused. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of cool, incense and pine scented air. Over the rushing river to her left she could hear birdsong, the crack of a breaking branch in the pine forest to her right, and of course the chatter of the devotees around her. Underneath her bare feet the stone was slightly damp and rather chill, but Mary took her time anyway. This was a rare opportunity to get away from the house, away from her Uncle and Aunt and the increasing tension concerning Sophronia and Lord Harper's marriage. Besides, now she could talk to whomever she liked, and eat whatever she liked, and hold silent conversations with her ancestors. Explore her heathenish ways, as it were.

"Hullo."

Mary startled back at the voice, so close, and opened her eyes to find Captain Watson and, of all people, Corporal Creegan standing a few feet in front of her, not quite under the roof. Actually, Corporal Creegan was looking at the view, though he did nod in her direction. "Captain Watson," she said, hastily bobbing her head and then going to search for her shoes, which were half buried under someone's worn sandals.

Captain Watson trailed after her, hands behind his back. "I didn't expect to find you here."

Mary surreptitiously brushed the sole of one foot on top of the other before shoving her naked feet into her slippers. "Well, I can say the same."

"What brings you to these parts?"

"Oh, it's a lovely walk - " she started to say, before Corporal Creegan interrupted.

"This view is spectacular! "

Captain Watson did not quite twitch. "Yes, thank you, Corporal."

"Sir."

"Please don't tell anyone," Mary said in a rush, suddenly frightened that he had noticed she wasn't wearing stockings. "My Aunt and Uncle, they don't know I come here."

"They would be upset because...?"

Mary pulled her shawl tighter across her shoulders. How to explain?

"They're old fashioned?" offered Captain Watson with a little smile.

"Yes, yes they are," said Mary, relieved that she didn't have to explain further.

"I can understand why," continued the Captain. "I don't know if you follow politics at all, Miss Morstan, but things are happening here that make it dangerous for a young lady to be out on her own."

"I..." Mary began to walk down the road, Captain Watson falling into step next to her. It was incomprehensible to her that he had not heard of her situation. She was not a fine English lady. "I grew up here, Captain Watson. I am familiar with the local people."

"I don't disagree, Miss Morstan. Only it's been my experience that people will change on you when politics are involved, and you should not ever forget that. I've seen neighbor turn against neighbor, father against son. The losers in any conflict are always the women and children. I should not like to see you put in such a position through ignorance."

Mary wasn't quite sure how to respond.

"I don't mean to frighten you."

"No, no, it's fine," she said. "I know you're only doing your duty."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Mary being careful when the road narrowed and grew closer to the river rushing by, its water white from the previous night's rain. She thought of this and that to say, and finally settled on the obvious. "May I ask why you are here?"

"Just a little reconnaissance. Corporal Creegan has been tasked with showing me around the place..."

He trailed off and Mary glanced at him, only to see he in turn was looking back up the road, at the far distant Corporal Creegan, who was haggling with a woman over something she was carrying in a large basket. She took pity on the poor fellow. "The Corporal is perhaps not the most observant of men."

Captain Watson snorted. "Y'don't say."

Mary politely turned back to the river. She was very aware that this was their third, no, fourth meeting, and she was beginning to think it was not accidental. Or perhaps he wanted from her what other soldiers had wanted and had failed to get. Just because she was in the charge of Uncle Frederick and Aunt Thomasine, that didn't mean she was getting a stipend when she married, or when either one of them died. In fact, she was convinced the opposite was true. "Captain Watson," she said, gripping her hands tightly beneath the knot of her shawl. "Are you going to tell my Aunt or Uncle?"

"Hmm? Your - no, no of course not. Why would I?" he asked quizzically. A moment later he started down the road again. "If anyone asks, I'll just say I was on tour with Corporal Creegan, which is not, by the way, a lie."

They parted in the center of town, Mary heading back home while he and Corporal Creegan (who had finally caught up with them some ten minutes later) returned to the garrison. Mary took the opportunity of an quiet house to take a nap, only to be roused by loud voices in the corridor. She sat up, first rubbing sticky eyes and then blinking slowly in the dim room. Dusk was falling, which meant she had overslept, and that meant she should change into something presentable for the evening soiree at the Club.

"Sophronia!"

The word was muffled, but there was no mistaking the speaker, especially as she burst into Mary's room a moment later.

"Oh! She makes me so furious!" Flora slammed the door shut and stalked to the other side of the room. "How can you stand to be around her every day?!"

"She's harmless," said Mary, hiding a huge yawn behind her hand. She swung her legs off of the bed, but that was as far as she got before Flora flopped next to her. "Well, not entirely harmless, but you know what I mean."

"I do," muttered Flora with a heavy sigh. "I don't know what she's doing with this Kenneth Harper business. It's not right."

Mary side-eyed Flora and took the plunge to voice her opinion. "Y'mean, at the Club?"

Flora stared at her open-mouthed. "You knew?"

"No! I, I only just figured it out. It's the only place they could have met without anyone saying anything."

Flora drew back a little, frowning. "She's not going to go through with it. She's promised to run away."

"Flora!" gasped Mary. "This isn't a novel, this is real life! Sophronia doesn't get to do whatever she wants any more."

"Oh, of course she does, you little fool. Haven't you gotten that through your thick head, yet? Sophronia always gets what she wants."

Mary remained silent. It was so easy to forget that of the two sisters, Flora was by far the one who hurt her the most. Sophronia said cruel things all the time, but Mary paid no notice of them, because everyone knew that Sophronia didn't have an original thought in her head. Flora, on the other hand, was one of the most intelligent people Mary had ever met. If she had been a man she would have been at Oxford or Cambridge or even Bologna. Instead, she was destined to be naught but a wife and mother. Mary thought that would be a waste of her talents, as Flora was not musically or artistically inclined, which could have been an outlet for her skills. Maybe she would find a way after she was married. Speaking of which -

Mary had no answers for Flora. For all the time they had spent together, she wasn't sure Flora even liked her. Of course, Flora also spent as much time out of her parents presence as she possibly could. She had requested being sent to boarding school in England as soon as possible, and was not seen again until she was turfed out at 16, returning to India with sharp eyes and hard words. Aunt Thomasine and Uncle Frederick appeared to accept this as due course, and even Sophronia had taken Flora in stride, but Mary had found it difficult. She and Flora were only three years apart in age, and the first year Mary had spent with the Glendennings, Flora had been her near constant companion. Yet for all that, Flora still sided with her sister in most things, leaving Mary confused and backfooted on most occasions. Such as now.

"She won't believe me when I say he's a liar and a cheat," said Flora flatly.

"It is her choice," reminded Mary.

"Oh g-d, not you too."

Said with a curled upper lip that had Mary leaping off the bed and going to the armoire for a suitable evening dress. After a minute of angry silence on her part, Mary finally turned to Flora. "I don't understand you, Flora. I don't understand why you aren't pleased for her, or for yourself, or even your mother and father. If I didn't know any better, I would think you were jealous."

"And what would you know of love!" cried Flora, standing and drawing herself to her full height. "You're nothing but a chee-chee half-breed who'll never amount to anything but skiving off of the kindness and decency of friends of your father! At least he had the courtesy to die instead of foisting himself onto others!"

Mary shrank back against the armoire, holding her dress up to her chest, as if it could deflect the truth of Flora's words.

"And just so you know, before I was brought back to this g-dforsaken country I wasengaged to Duke Williams's son, Lord Robert! I was to marry him, and when they found out I was to return to India, they let me go with nary a thought! I was in love - I loved him with every ounce of my soul! So yes, I am not pleased to see my sister marrying a Lord before me!" Finished with her speech, Flora let herself out, once more slamming the door behind herself.

Silence reigned. At least until Mary collapsed on the floor, silently sobbing so hard she could barely get a breath in. Bitter words from Flora. But not ones that were untrue.

Within a few minutes she had recovered from her loss of composure. She washed her face with lukewarm water from the basin, checked her reflection in the mirror. Though it was now dark in the room, she could still see enough to tell that her eyes were red-rimmed. That was all right, by the time they arrived at the Club her eyes would be normal again.

There was a double knock at the door, and one of the servants came in to light the lamps. Mary stayed where she was, unwilling to look at the servant or indeed chat with them. She just wanted to crawl back into her bed and sleep until morning. Unfortunately for her, she had to go to the Club. It simply wouldn't do, that she would not be there with Uncle Frederick and Aunt Thomasine, especially not on the cause for the soiree in the first place. Though why they couldn't have it here in the house, Mary didn't know.

She no longer wanted to wear her new gown in butter yellow. It was too pretty a color for her, even though she had picked it out and had it dyed especially. Going back to the armoire, she chose a plain white dress with white on white cutwork, underneath which was a layer of fine white lawn. The skirt of the dress had three tiers, each of which was edged in dark red silk, as were her short sleeves. Putting the dress to one side, she choose newly cleaned slippers and stockings, a simple yet delicate cloisonne bangle in maroon, and just to be contrary, a hair pin with white peacock feathers. A little much for this party, but now that she was feeling contrary and upset, it felt appropriate. Let Flora laugh at that!

By the time they arrived at Club. The event was in full swing, with seemingly all of who mattered chatting, eating, drinking, and dancing. She spied Flora talking to Lord Harper and immediately went in the other direction. There weren't many people by the windows, so that's where she went to stand, half-hiding behind the drapery.

Mary saw Captain Watson, just a glimpse of him through crowd. He was in dress uniform, which showed off his trim figure and he made the rounds with efficiency, often leaving laughter in his wake. Growing hungry and thirsty, she made her way to the buffet, where she made herself a small plate of cheese and crackers and cake.

Mr. and Mrs. Tolliver nodded gravely at her as she passed them, but they were otherwise the only people sitting by her. Making only the barest of greetings, and to as few people as possible, Mary made her way to an empty table near one of the alcoves (also thankfully empty) and sat through nearly four dances without being spoken to by anyone. Which was fine, at least until Sophronia saw her and made sharp 'come hither' motions. If she didn't go, Sophronia would only make a scene once they returned home, and Mary was certain no one wanted to partake of the accusation. With a sign of resignation, she rose and joined Sophronia after battling through those young ladies whose cards had yet to be filled.

"Whatever did you say to Flora, she's being beastly!" hissed Sophronia, snapping her fan open and fanning herself with angry enthusiasm.

Mary paused to allow Mrs. Winget to pass, then caught up to Sophronia, who was making for the porch gallery. "I don't think I said anything of importance. She's unhappy that you're marrying Lord Harper."

"Oh!" chuckled Sophronia, clearly pleased. "All because she didn't get her own little lord."

"I suppose she's a bit jealous. Look, there's Helen in the foyer, let's go say hello." Mary tried to get Sophronia to move on to another subject, but she wasn't having any of it.

"Kenneth may not have as much money as her Lord La-di-da, but more people will know his name. He's going to do great work in this country, Mary, mark my words."

"Yes, Sophronia."

The gallery was thankfully less crowded than the ball room, yet it also appeared to be where the rogues had gathered. Sophronia trotted out the door and down the stairs at a speed of which Mary would not have thought her capable, not in that dress and those shoes.

"Sophronia!" she called, hurrying to catch up. The double patio doors caught her on the back swing, halting her progress as they caught on her own dress. She tugged on the skirt, felt a stitch give and was forced to stop, open the door partway and pull her skirt free from where it had snagged. A second later she was going down the stairs, too, albeit at a slower speed. It was far too cool outside to be without a wrap, and Sophronia was bare-shouldered. Of course, she was now at the edge of the garden, her pale green dress easily visible in the torchlight.

"Hello, boys," she called, fanning herself prettily and smiling in a most unbecoming manner, sauntering to the small group of soldiers and young gentlemen. "What are you doing, hidden away over here?"

"Miss Sophronia!" and "Hullo, miss!" rumbled from the back corner, leaving Mary uneasy. She was not fond of drunkards in any sense, and was leery of joining the seven or eight of them. It would not do to let Sophronia out of her sight, though, either, so she took a deep breath and drifted after her.

As she drew closer, she realized she knew two of them - Corporal Waterston and Lieutenant Staver. They were two peas in a pod, with their sandy hair and smirking smiles. What was more, they had each, in their own way, made it clear they liked Sophronia rather too much. Lieutenant Staver was the kind of man who made it obvious that Mary was not worthy of his time, even as he looked her slowly up and down, calculating, licking his lips slowly when he thought no one else but she could see. He frightened her, for no reason she could discern. Waterston followed his lead, making his lewd thought more obvious with pointed fingers to his groin. He was disgusting, and if he were to die on the morrow, Mary would not miss him.

"Are you playing dice?" asked Sophronia, her voice high and amused. She crowded in along the edge of men, who parted slightly to allow her in, until she was completely hidden from view.

G-d, if they were dicing, Sophronia would surely be stepping right on top of them! That meant the only way the men could retrieve them would be to - ! Mary rushed forward, heedless of heads turning her way. She heard the low laughter and ignored it, intent on getting Sophronia back into the main room and as soon as possible.

"Mr. Coggins!" squealed Sophronia, more excited than outraged. "You won't find your devil's instrument there, I can tell you!"

"Excuse me," said Mary, trying to shoulder her way through and failing miserably. The scent of beer and indeed, whisky, was strong, which terrified her even more. "Excuse me! Sophronia!"

"Leave me be, Mary," hissed Sophronia, jerking her hand free. "I'll be inside in a few minutes, go on."

"No!" Mary grabbed Sophronia's hand again, and that's when someone grabbed her by the wrist and roughly pulled her through the circle of men until she stood next to her cousin. Glancing at her Sophronia, Mary was horrified to see the light blazing in Sophronia's eyes, the glee with which she found herself the focus of everyone's attention.

"Now, who will give me a dance, and then I shall give you back your dice?" asked Sophronia impertinently, glancing around with a raised eyebrow and a curled upper lip.

"Sophy, no," muttered Mary, trying to grab Sophronia's wrist again, only to discover someone was still holding on to her. She pulled, but her arm was not let go. A frisson of fear sweeping through her. "Let go - let me go!"

Sophronia looked over her shoulder with a grimace. "Oh Mary, it's just a little joke - "

"It isn't," she cried, pulling harder. "Let me go!"

"Come on, miss, it's only a bit of fun!" The speaker, a tall, thin gentleman with a shock of black hair, smiled confidently, pulling Mary strongly enough that she feared for her safety.

"I'll thank you to kindly unhand Miss Morstan."

The soldier looked over his shoulder at the speaker, as did Mary. It was Captain Watson, watching them with his hands behind his back. He was smiling, though it didn't reach other parts of his face. He glanced at Mary, then at the soldier still clasping her wrist.

The soldier dropped her hand immediately. "Sir, yes, of course. Miss, I do apologise. Excuse me."

Mary rubbed her wrist, feeling foolish, unable to stop the tears from welling up.

"Why don't you return to the ballroom," said Captain Watson, watching her gravely. "I'll collect Miss Sophronia and meet you inside."

She nodded and hastily returned to the gallery, which through some miracle had emptied out. Forcing herself to take deep breaths, Mary fanned herself with one hand and hoped she could hide her distress. Her saving grace was that the room was humid - she could plead being overly warm, if anyone asked. The double doors clattered open, and when she turned to look it was to find Sophronia snapping her fan open and pointing it at the person behind her.

" - appreciate your behavior, Captain Watson!"

"Sophronia!" cried Mary, afraid someone might overhear Captain Watson being dressed down by a civilian.

Sophronia whipped back toward Mary. "And you! You had no right! I can take care of myself, I don't need your constant nannying! Perhaps if you found yourself a beau you would understand!"

She strode past Mary with a huff, leaving her alone with Captain Watson.

"Don't mind her," he said, slowly approaching Mary. "You did the right thing, although you should have found a gentleman to accompany you."

Mary did not dare look him in the eye. She nodded. "Yes, you are of course right."

He leaned forward a little. "But you were very brave, Miss Morstan."

She glanced up at him under her eyelashes, to find him smiling at her, rather than the approbation she was expecting. "Thank you."

"Now that that's settled, shall we get some punch?"

Sophronia was nowhere to be seen within the ballroom, for which Mary was left both grateful and concerned. Yet Sophronia was right; Mary was not her keeper. And Sophronia was due to be married, she could be Lord Harper's concern from now on.

Another plate of delectables in hand, Mary led Captain Watson back to her table, which was still miraculously empty. Even the Tollivers had moved to the dance floor. Given that he was carrying their glasses, she pulled out a chair for him.

Captain Watson sat down."We really must stop meeting like this."

Mary took the comment in the spirit with which it was said. "People will start to talk."

Captain Watson grinned. "People do little else. I took the liberty of getting a glass of champagne instead of punch."

"Thank you," Mary motioned towards her plate. "Please help yourself."

"Ah, no. Cheese does not agree with me in this climate."

"A pity. Cheese is one of my favorite foods."

He looked at her, eyebrows quirked.

"They don't make proper cheese in this country," she explained. "Just paneer. You can't really eat it on a cracker or a slice of bread, but you can eat it with saag or aloo, roti. And other things," Mary ground to a halt, abruptly aware she hadn't been using English words for food, as Aunt Thomasine was always wanting her to do. She didn't know why Aunt Thomasine felt Mary would be more marriageable without Hidni or Urdu.

"You are a refreshingly honest woman, Miss Morstan."

"Captain Watson!"

Captain Watson gave a slow blink, and Mary was under the impression he would rather be with her than whomever had called his name.

"Ah, there you are!"

"Mr. Jones," Captain Watson stood and bowed slightly.

Mr. Jones didn't even glance at Mary, speaking in a rush. "Fanny must see you tomorrow at your earliest convenience. She cannot wait any longer!"

"Of course. I'll see her at nine?"

"I'll have the room ready and everything prepared. Good day, sir."

Captain Watson slowly took his seat, watching Mr. Jones all the while. Finally he leaned sideways towards Mary. "Mrs. Jones is a hypochondriac who fears illness at every turn of the sun."

"She's new to India?" asked Mary, not quite sure of his mocking tone.

"Been here thirty years."

"Oh! I see…yes, I've known a few Mrs. Jones in my time."

"I thought that might be the case," said Captain Watson, helping himself to a cracker. He side-eyed her. "I was called to a Mr. Delahyde this afternoon,"

"Oh yes," asked Mary in a rush. "How is he?"

"Very well, thanks in no small part to you."

Mary shook her head.

"Yes, very much so. You should be proud of yourself, Miss Morstan. Without your quick thinking he would have been in great pain, and the arm might even have needed to be reset."

Her cheeks heating, Mary had to glance away. Such effusive praise was not something she ordinarily heard.

Captain Watson sipped from his glass. "Shall you become a vivandiere, next?"

Shocked, Mary didn't think before answering. "Hardly!"

Then she noticed the sparkle in his eye and shook her head. "You're a terrible tease, Captain."

"You wouldn't be the first to say that. I will say you have skills ordinary women lack. Where did you learn such things?"

"From books, only from books. And Sister Simpson from Hope House sometimes allows me to watch the orphans..."

"A wonderful thing to do, Miss Morstan. I commend you on your morality."

"I'm not sure morality has anything to do with it," she answered honestly. "It's simply the right thing to do."

He nodded, smiling ever so slightly.

They sat in silence for what seemed to be an extraordinarily long minute, but in that minute the dancers broke and began to drift to the tables to rest and catch their breath before the quintet began to play once more. Mary was just about to excuse herself when a jovial voice called her name.

"Miss Morstan! Do stay there, I'm so tired I can hardly stand. Oh, hello," Miss Parker boldly offered her hand to Captain Watson. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Vanessa Parker."

Captain Watson half-rose and bowed over her hand. "Likewise."

"So this is where you've squirreled yourself away," Miss Morstan said to Mary, reaching for her glass and downing the remainder in one gulp. "Dancing is thirsty work. Do you dance, Captain?"

"Not willingly," he answered, which made Mary look down at her hands, bemused beyond what the comment called for.

"A pity. There's nothing like a handsome soldier whirling a girl around a ball room," she stood, twitched her skirts this way and that. "Well, I must go off in search of more of that delicious champagne, ta-ra!"

Mary dared to glance up just in time to meet Captain Watson's puzzled frown - and then they were both chuckling.

"I dare say it was a good effort on her part."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she said, not even bothering to hide her amusement.

"I pity the man taken unawares."

"And I wish him all the luck in the world," replied Mary. Feeling a little bold, she asked, "And what about yourself, Captain Watson? Is there a Mrs. Watson pining for you back in England?"

He shook his head, shoulders twitching in an unshared laugh. "No Mrs. Watson yet. Perhaps I'll find her here in India."

Mary nodded. "There are certainly plenty of young ladies ready and willing."

"I'm not sure I'm looking for a young lady," he paused, frowned, tilted his head slightly. "Wait, am I looking?"

He said it in such a self-deprecating tone that Mary couldn't help but chuckle again. He was a very nice gentleman, to speak to her so honestly, and with such good humour. "I am sure you will be quite snatched up."

"Perhaps I shall marry you," he replied, still smiling, looking her directly in the eye.

Mary froze, then giggled. "You are funny, Captain Watson! I'm afraid I'm too old to marry, now. I shall spend the rest of my days looking after my Aunt and Uncle once Sophronia and Flora marry. Such is the life of the spinster."

He shook his head, brows drawing down. "No, surely your talents lie elsewhere. What about joining your friend at the orphanage?"

"No, the idea does not appeal."

"But you attend church, I've seen you there."

He had? "The faith does not call to me as it does to others," she answered primly. Which was an understatement. If she were to tell him the whole truth, it would be that she did not believe, not as the others did. Oh, she loved Jesus, but the rest of it...it did not spark truth in her heart. The blood in her veins was not purely English - that was what must have corrupted her.

"I'm sorry, I'm being unforgivingly rude. I find you intriguing, Miss Morstan. You are protective of your family, find orphanages in strange countries, visit heathen temples. What other hidden depths might you have, I wonder?"

If a hole just happened to open underneath her feet, Mary would happily jump into it. As flattering as his attention was, it made her uneasy. This was the kind of talk both Flora and Sophronia excelled at - she was unused to it, and it made her feel funny.

Captain Watson pushed back his chair and stood up. "I do believe I have put both feet and possibly an entire leg into it. I also see Sergeant Jellicoe by the door, and he doesn't like to to come to events like this if he can possibly help it. In fact I remember he once said he would rather walk on hot coals than make an appearance at a ball, by which I can only ascertain that I am needed forthwith for an emergency."

Mary nodded and raised her glass to her lips before remembering Vanessa had drunk it all. What an odd man. Odd, yet she liked him, she decided. Yes, he had a way about him that was immensely appealing, and she was pretty sure the earlier incident had no bearing on her opinion of him. Well, not much of a bearing. Red came into the corner of her vision - she looked up -

"May I call on you tomorrow?"

Mary blinked at Captain Watson, then jerkily got to her feet as well. "Of course. Yes, of course."

"I'll see you at luncheon."


	3. Chapter 3

The next day dawned bright and clear and warm. Captain Watson arrived just as everyone sat down to eat. It was a jovial affair, with Captain Watson and Uncle Frederick telling tall tales. Replete with their meal, they decided to take a turn about the garden, Uncle Frederick and Lettice ahead of them, throwing crusts of bread to the ducks, when Captain Watson suddenly stopped. Mary took another two steps before she realized, and immediately turned back to him. He had removed his hat, and in the bright sunshine his pleasantly tanned face looked paler than normal. "Are you all right?" she asked hastily, moving close in case he needed a steadying hand.

"Miss Morstan," he mumbled, looking at her intently and gripping his hat tightly with both hands. "Miss Morstan - Mary - "

"Are you sure you wouldn't care to sit down?" she asked, throwing a glance over her shoulder to see if Uncle Frederick was within calling distance. If Captain Watson did fall to the ground, she would need someone to fetch servants to bring him inside as quickly as possible. "Come, let's move over to the shade."

Captain Watson followed her underneath the small oak, where she made him sit on the filigreed metal bench encircling the tree trunk. She had to smile when he looked at her gratefully. Judging by his appearance, he was very very nervous, upset about something. "Pray, tell me what I can do to help."

"Ah," he said. "Mary - Miss Morstan - in my head I call you Mary, which I know is forward of me, but there it is. In addition to that, I have a sister who lives in America. She is married to a doctor and has two children, a girl, Eliza, who is five, and a three year old boy named Hartwell. We grew up in modest and then deprived circumstances in a suburb of London," he paused to shake his head. "As I'm sure you can tell from my accent. Or not, you've never been to London, have you?"

Mary waited patiently for his story to end. Though they had occasionally spoken before the incident at the Club, he was a fairly reticent man when it came to matters personal. Up until this moment she had not even know he had a sister! And he called her Mary when he was alone - oh! As if she would have said 'no' if he had merely asked to call her by her Christian name. "Of course you can call me Mary, we are friends, are we not?"

He blew out a noisy breath and huffed a laugh. "This is a lot more difficult than I would have guessed."

"What is?" she asked, leaning forward to catch his eye. "Captain, I hope you think of me as a confident and friend."

"Oh, I do, I do..." He stared at the ground for a long moment, then continued. "Do you not recall the conversation we had at the Club during the ball? About how you set Mr. Delahyde's arm?"

"Mr. Delahyde, yes," she said with a shrug. "But what of it?"

"It was then that I realized you were more than you appeared to be on the surface of things."

With an increasing sense of worry, Mary tried to figure out what he was getting at. He seemed awfully concerned or worried about her opinion. Of whatever he was talking about. She would have to be patient, which with each passing birthday grew more and more difficult.

"I am a soldier in the Army, Miss Morstan. I go where I am ordered and do my job as need be. I am a doctor and surgeon. Both take me away from home all hours of night and day for days and weeks and months, possibly even years."

"Of course," she said, nodding. "They are careers that require a gentleman to be away."

He smiled at her, seemingly relieved. "My point is that I am unlikely to ever be wealthy. I don't know if I will ever return to England. I don't know if I can keep a wife in the style in which she has become accustomed. I...might...consider resigning my commission to be a doctor in London, or maybe the country. What say you to all of that?"

Mary clasped her hands together in her lap. "I'm not sure you should necessarily mention any of that to a prospective wife, if I'm honest. But...the kind of woman who would appreciate such is a rare breed, I think. You'd want a woman who is steady, with a firm head on her shoulders, one who can manage a household on pennies, and stay by herself for long periods of time. All you need do is find her, and your life will be immeasurably improved," she finished firmly, as sure of her words as she was of the monsoon arriving twice a year. Hopefully she had eased his mind on the matter of attaining a wife. She wondered if she should speak to his good points as well. "You are a fine man, Captain Watson, well worthy as a husband. Your honesty to me can only prove that, and the esteem in which your colleagues hold you further proves to your skills as a surgeon and no doubt, a doctor. I have every confidence that whatever you choose in the future, you will be successful."

Captain Watson was looking at her wide-eyed, the slightest smile on his lips. 

"I do hope that eases your fears," she said, happy to have spoken her mind. Uncle Frederick's booming laugh echoed across the garden, and Mary looked over to find him brushing the tip of an ornamental grass over Letty's forehead. There was movement out of the corner of her eye and as she turned, she realized it was Captain Watson, leaning forward and - 

He kissed her on her cheek, so close to the corner of her mouth that it might as well have been a proper kiss. Stunned, Mary could only sit and blink at him. 

He glanced at her mouth, then back at her eyes. "Marry me."

Mary blinked at him. Shook her head a little. "Sorry, what?"

Captain Watson covered her hands with both of his own. "Marry me, Miss Morstan."

She didn't know what to say. 

"Are you really so shocked?"

"I..." Her vision blurred as for the second time since she had met him, Mary teared up in his presence. "I never expected this," she said, her voice tremulous. And it was true. She had never dared think of him that way, hadn't dared to think of any man that way since it had become clear their only interest in her was one of convenience.

"You sell yourself short," he said. "Don't answer me now. I'm away to Simla this very afternoon, and I expect to be there for the week before I return. Think on it."

Mary nodded, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. She looked over her shoulder to see if Uncle Frederick had noticed their conversation, but now he was playing bowls with Letty.

"Can I have a kiss, before I go?"

A bold question! Yet Mary was...intrigued. She felt wild and out of control as she stared at him, heat pounding so hard she thought she might faint. He leaned forward, closer, closer, and closer until she had to close her eyes in order not to get dizzy. The kiss, when it happened, was not on her lips. No, she felt the softest press of warmth at the join of shoulder and neck, followed by a wet, tickling thrill that she understood was his tongue only after he had pulled away. Whatever expression she wore, he was pleased with it, for he squeezed her hands and then stood, towering over her while she commanded her weakened legs to work.

"I'll see you in a week. Give my regrets to your Aunt and Uncle," he said, backing away, then turning and striding away and into the recesses of the house.

Mary touched where he had kissed. It felt like a brand.

 

_My Dear Captain -_

_I find myself unable to write. I have spent three days sitting here, pen in hand, trying to describe to you what has happened in your absence._

_First of all, Flora has run off with Lord Kenneth Harper. The truth has been found, to no one's satisfaction. It was Corporal Creegan (of course), who unwittingly spilled the beans. It appears that while Sophronia has been seeing Lord Harper in private at the Officer's Club, Flora has been seeing him in town. Meeting him deliberately, as it were. It had been Lord Harper's idea to ask for Sophy's hand in marriage, rather than Flora's, because she is eldest. He has made Sophronia a laughing stock in town, and by correlation, myself as well. Poor Sophronia has shut herself away in her room, with only my Aunt for company. That in itself is a fright to behold. I do my best with keep Uncle Frederick company (he has vowed to never speak to Flora again, but I fear he will do himself harm if he actually goes through with said sentiment)._

_As you can imagine, no one expected such behavior from either Flora or Lord Harper. Truth be told, while I am shocked by Flora's decision, I can no longer call myself surprised. The day of the ball, we had words. She said some thing that greatly disturbed me. Her bitterness and rancour at having to return to India from her time in England was...I can barely describe it._

_If you feel that you cannot marry into such a family - it occurs to me now that perhaps you do not know my background. It occurs to me that you might decide to end our affiliation in the light of this new information as well._

_Allow me to start at the beginning._

_My Grandfather, Sir Hugh Glendenning, came to this country as a young man and made his fortune here. He had two brothers and one sister, Richard, Matthew, and Elizabeth, all of whom stayed in England. His first wife died on the journey here, and his second never recovered from giving birth to their only child, Frederick, and died within a few weeks of that happy event. Sir Hugh vowed to never take another English wife, and married a girl from a good Brahmin family. They had two children, Alexander and Laurence. All three boys were sent to England upon reaching their majority, but only Frederick and Alexander returned to India. Frederick married well, and rose through the ranks of the East India Company. Alexander did not marry. But he did have a bastard. Fearing retaliation by her family, Alexander decided to leave Lahore and take the mother and child to Simla. The mother, shamed of her relationship and the new child, and afraid of living a future with Alexander, hurled herself into the chasm at Dharamsala. Unable to bear going to Simla without her, Alexander instead came to Palampur, where he took a chill during the winter and died before the child was a year old._

_The woman was my mother, and Alexander my father. I lived with my paternal grandparents until I was eight years old, when Uncle Frederick came to inspect his niece and did not like what he found. Uncle Frederick took me in despite my grandfather's protestations. Flora and Sophronia had already been born, and Philip was delayed going to England for the next two years. Uncle Frederick says he needed another masculine presence in the household to offset us girls. Though I grew up speaking Hindi and Urdu, and have a little Punjabi and Kangri, I have been forbidden to speak any of it in or outside of Aunt Thomasine's presence. Though she has helped raise me, I am not, understandably, her favorite. If anything, I believe I am only tolerated on Uncle Frederick's affection for his brother._

_Whilst I have grown up under Uncle Frederick's tutelage, I have no hope of money from either him or my father's family. Aunt Thomasine has been very clear on that account, and so must survive on my wits and what schooling I have._

_I hope this news does not distress you._

_Unlike you, I have no prospects. I expect I shall become a governess, or - or - I do not know. It pains me to think of a future without Uncle Frederick, who has been so kind and decent to me. My father's parents, who still live in Dharamsala, have no desire to see to my wellbeing. There is no recourse from them._

_I come to you empty handed._

_If you will still have me._

_Yours,_

_Mary Morstan_

There was a splotch of black ink near her name. Mary pursed her lips, then sanded the letter anyway. The splotch was more representative of her, anyway. She would send the letter, and hopefully a return letter would make its way back to her within a few days.\

She sincerely hoped she had said enough, but not too much. Captain Watson needed to know, however, _most_ of the details of her situation. It was unimaginable, thinking she could tell him everything, such as the time she had been twelve or maybe thirteen, just at that impressionable age when one begins to think of one's self one way or another. She had been in the garden, reading Jane Eyre and getting lost at Lowood School, when she gradually became aware of voices. She had a moment of indecision over whether or not to announce her presence, hesitated, and the time was gone. She shrank back behind the orange azaleas, tucking her head against her knees and hoping that if she was discovered, they would think her asleep instead of eavesdropping.

"Does he not understand what he's doing by having her here? With the family?"

Mary hugged her shins even more tightly. Mrs. Drake-Jones. One of Aunt Thomasine's near daily visitors and certainly a close confidant. Mary could just make out their shoes and the bottoms of their skirts through the trunk of the azalea, through its leaves.

"I don't know what he's thinking. No, I do," replied Aunt Thomasine. "His affection for his younger brother has grown only stronger since he brought her here, and nothing I do or say can dissuade him from sending her to a school in another district. I don't care which one, so long as she's gone."

"Does he expect Sophronia or Flora to be able to marry well with that girl here?"

"I don't know," said Aunt Thomasine testily. "None of this would have happened had we stayed in England. I would go back in a heartbeat if I could."

And so Mary found the answer to the question she hadn't even realized she wanted to know. Oh, of course, it was clear she was not Aunt Thomasine's favorite, but that was only to be expected. Indeed, Grandmother had told Mary as much when she was eight, right before she shooed Mary out of the house and onto Uncle Frederick's horse. But to actually hear it directly from Aunt Thomasine - it wasn't what she said, so much as the manner in which she said it. That tone of disgust, of dislike...why did she bother pretending when they were at table, or anywhere where Uncle Frederick could over hear? Especially when she had made herself clear to him already?

It was a mystery Mary was unable to figure out for many years. As she grew older, as it became clear Aunt Thomasine's opinions of her would never change, no matter what she did. The worst part is that once Ayah was sent away, there was no one for whom Mary could rely on to talk to, in English or Hindi or even Urdu and Krangi. She was, in short, closer to poor Jane Eyre than she would ever have imagined when she first read the book.

Even thinking about that overheard conversation now was hard to bear. Perhaps Captain Watson would be her saviour after all. In any case, it was time for luncheon at the Club.

After their meal they had drinks on the veranda. Mary took her usual glass of weak meta-pani, while the rest took gimlets or soda waters and even chota peg. As Letty was visiting, a tray of biscuits magically appeared on the low table between the couches. 

"I understand there is an American among us now," said Aunt Thomasine, motioning for her glass to be refilled.

"Yes," answered Letty. "I met her the other day, Miss Vanessa Parker. She's fabulously wealthy, and travelling the world by herself. Can you believe it?"

"Oh, I could never!" said Antonia, glancing at everyone, wide-eyed. "How frightening that would be!"

Letty delicately bit a cube of Turkish Delight in half. "Mm, no. She had a manservant and a maid to come along with her. She's come from California and travelled to the Far East. She says she's making her way from West to West. Her goal is to finish in London."

Still holding on to her book, Mary turned her attention to one of the peacocks strutting about the lawn. Poor creature, to be taken from its home in warmer climes just for the amusement of the household. It was also a good way of hiding the fact she had already met Miss Parker, and had not been impressed. 

"How rich is she?" asked Flora.

Aunt Thomasine _tsked_ , but everyone knew she was just as interested as Flora.

Letty shrugged. "She's the only child of gold prospectors, so at least twenty thousand a year, sterling."

A ripple passed through the women, even Mary was taken aback. To have that kind of money at one's disposal! 

"Oh, do let's stop talking about Americans," said Letty. She half-turned in her chair and called out. "Koi-hai! Cards!"

"Mary, you'll have to play fourth," said Aunt Thomasine, getting to her feet. "I must go speak with Mrs. Slocumb."

Mary dutifully put her book aside. The game was whist, but soon turned to cribbage, which she much preferred as it required no partnering. Besides, she usually won.They played for some time, long enough for tea, though Flora took a single gin and tonic instead. It was early for that sort of thing. Mary vowed to keep an eye on Flora. It seemed to her that Flora had been drinking more often since her return from England, and Aunt Thomasine would be sorely disappointed in Mary if she did not mention any problems that might arise.

She was contemplating asking for a break, so she could take a turn about the veranda, when a woman spoke over her shoulder.

"Miss Allen, how delightful to see you again."

Everyone startled, then turned to look at the speaker.

She was very pretty, tall and slim, wearing a delicate, lacy white dress somehow as yet unbesmirched by dirt or dust, and her hair was a marvelous shade of auburn. It was in turn swept back from her face in a large bun very unlike the current fashion.It was, on the other hand, an easy style for travel and easily fixed upon removal of one's topee. Her eyes were very blue, and when she smiled at them, her gaze sweeping from person to person, Mary felt as though she was on the receiving end of special blessing. She wasn't sure if she was appreciative or annoyed at the emotion, given how Miss Parker had drunk her champagne without so much as a by-your-leave.

"Miss Parker!" Letty sprang to her feet, her chair making the most awful noise as it skittered back on the tiled floor. "Please join us!"

Everyone shuffled a little closer to one another as a servant appeared with a chair. 

"Thank you," said Miss Parker to the servant, immediately embarrassing everyone. "I hope I'm not interrupting your game."

Flora slapped her cards on the table and leaned back in her chair. "Oh, please do. I'm getting tired of Mary beating me at every hand."

"I could lose, if you like," said Mary, putting her cards face down on the table. Just in case Flora changed her mind, though Mary was sure she wouldn't.

"Don't mind them," said Letty. "Miss Vanessa Parker, this is Mary Morstan, niece of Lord Glendenning, and this is Miss Flora Glendenning, and her sister, Sophronia."

"Pleased to meet you," said Miss Parker, once again looking at everyone in turn. "But call me Vanessa. I know it's not the done thing, but I find it easier to travel on a first name basis."

"And call me Mary," Mary said, before anyone could get a word in. "Letty was just telling us that she had met you earlier."

Letty caught sight of someone over Mary's shoulder and waved. "Antonia!"

Mary pursed her lips, embarrassed over Letty's loudness. Miss Parker - Vanessa - raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. 

They made more room to fit Antonia at the table, and then Vanessa continued on.

"Once I came to my majority I decided there was no reason for me to stay in California, I mean, why should I? Just because old women feel it's inappropriate - hmph!"

"But, by yourself, though?" asked Antonia, wide-eyed. "I'm not sure I would dare, without my husband by my side."

Vanessa dropped a lump of sugar in her tea and stirred. "When I was a child, I read stories of Jeanne Baret and Lady Hester Stanhope and their adventures. I decided I wanted to be like them and as soon as I was able, I did."

Flora eyed Vanessa sceptically. "Surely your parents had much to say on the matter?" 

"My mother died shortly after my birth, and my father when I was three. I was left in the care of my uncle, who is more than happy to have his niece adventure around the world."

Privately, Mary thought the uncle was rather more enamoured by thoughts of inheritance, should Vanessa fail to complete her voyage for one reason or another.

"He must be a very kind man," said Antonia. "You are so lucky!"

"Well," Vanessa gestured widely. "You live in India, you don't consider yourself lucky as well?"

Sophronia chuckled, shaking her head. "This is just home, exotic would be going to America, or Europe."

" _I_ consider England home," stressed Flora. She sniffed. "India is a backwater and I'll be glad to marry and leave."

Everyone fell silent for a minute, taking in this pronouncement with varying degrees of acceptance.

"I understand there is a dance, tonight?" Vanessa asked, looking at Mary.

"Yes, at six."

"Oh, that's not too long from now," said Vanessa. "I should go and get ready. I hope to see you all here later on this evening."

After she left, Flora turned to Sophronia, shaking her head. "A likely story. I'll wager she's got herself a husband, somewhere. She probably ran away, she's probably meeting her lover as we speak!"

Sophronia started nodding. "Yes, I don't doubt it! That story of her uncle being 'happy' to see her off - not a chance in the world!"

Mary jumped into the fray."That's not a very kind thing to say. I didn't hear anything that would make me think she was lying. Just look at the quality of her clothes, the way in which she carries herself. She's no street urchin out for a lark."

"Oh Mary," scoffed Sophronia. "Don't be such a stick in the mud. "Don't you remember when Euphemia Page took on Roger Flavell for a lover, and his wife threw herself into the Ganges?"

"Yes...and your point?"

"She should have just run away with him," said Flora. "I don't know why they stayed in Delhi, flaunting their affair in front of Mrs. Flavell. That's just not done."

Mary took a sip of her meta-pani, but said nothing more. Sophronia was doing her usual ignoring of any comment Mary made, while Flora, who had never met an opinion she hadn't felt free to discuss, began to argue with her sister over what Euphemia and Roger should have done. Disgusting, the both of them.

As the days rolled on, Mary was determined to keep busy. She visited the orphanage at least once a day, teaching one class of English and doing whatever she could around the building until Sister Simpson accosted her and quite plainly told her to find something else to do, as she was distracting everyone from getting any work done. She tried to read her favorite books, but found herself reading the same page over and over again. When she finally gave up, she headed to Cousin Letty's and took tea with Letty and her siblings. She walked along the river, was escorted to temple by Lieutenant James, who fancied himself a potential husband to any of them, despite having no chance at all. She sketched the people she saw along the way. She painted the garden, too, and spent hours sitting in the tea garden, sketching the women as they plucked the leaves, making watercolors of their bright shalwar khameez.

Eventually she tired of keeping herself busy and sat in the orangery with a tray of tea, and thought about her future. If Captain Watson found her letter abhorrent, then she truly would be on her own. She should peruse the papers more frequently, and see what advertisements there were for governesses and nannies, see if any schools for girls were hiring. It was a terrifying prospect, surviving only by her own wits. She would be on her own, truly, without any support to fall back upon. Or at least without uncle Frederick to keep an eye out for her.

It was with great relief that after breakfast one day, a letter was brought to her by one of the servants. Stealing into the library to read it on her own, she broke the seal.

 

_Dear Miss Morstan -_

_I received your letter some days ago, but until now have not had a chance to sit down and write a proper letter back. Please forgive the pencil and any untoward stains - I write this against a small desk in the ward. I doubt I shall have time to *unintelligble*_

_I am sure you have heard of the action by now. We are very lucky the telegram was received by Lord Hey, else we should all be dead by now. The villains in charge are set to be hanged at the end of the week and I, for one, shall not be glad of it. I can think of no good solution to the problem, either. You remember our discussion on the subject some weeks ago? What I meant to say was that it is all too easy to become complacent in the company of people one doesn't fully understand, whether or not they are friends and neighbors. History proves my case only too well._

_There is a queer feeling I do not like, an air of anticipation. I can sense it; the scent of war, famine, rapine. Be wary, and alert. Trust no one. Keep close to the house and pay extra attention to any of your native friends who may have words of warning couched in friendly terms. I realize you are put in a delicate position by my words, but I would rather offend and keep you alive, than stay silent and mourn your loss._

_Forgive me._

_As you can see, I am far from dissuaded by your news. If anything, I am further assured that my decision is right. You are the woman for me, if you'll have me. If I live so long as to see you again._

_Now tell me what you would like for our wedding. The church, of course, but there is where to stay, after, and where to go after that. It may be that I shall have to return to Simla, though you may choose to remain in Palampur. I can understand this - in fact, I encourage it._

_Yours, Capt. J.H.Watson_

 

_Dearest Captain Watson -_

_I shall take your concern about my safety to heart. Sister Narinder at the Orphanage already whispered to me that I should be careful going out on the streets by myself. I should always go with someone else, and preferably a little group. I mentioned your words to Uncle Frederick, but he laughed at me and told me not to worry, that these were matters for the Army, not little women such as myself. I know he means well, but I have noticed...Palampur is different._

_If you'll allow me to digress for a moment, the first thing I noticed was the market. I like to go there several times a week, and getting things for myself, sometimes a new book, other times a bit of ribbon or a bag of cloves and another of oranges as to make pomanders. (I have yet to be successful in making a pomander that does not rot within a few weeks, but I shall persevere!) Today, I bought several yards of the finest muslin and silk, to be dyed indigo and periwinkle for the ball. As I walked around the market, it seemed to me that people became quiet as I passed amongst them. They looked at me from the sides of their eyes, and when I greeted several I know personally, they were rather cool towards me, speaking only in terms of my purchases and no more. It was very disheartening. And it made me quite nervous._

_I took tea at Middleton's, and over heard many ladies speaking about the coolness with which they had been received by market sellers. Some even went so far as to call their servants impudent! (I am not sure I would fault the servants)(Some of those ladies are cruel - I would not leave a cat in their presence, never mind staff) In short, it appears there is a growing movement among the locals in support of the rebellion. As for myself, I...I have no opinion on the matter. I do not even know what it is about, to be honest. Unclre Frederick does not allow us the papers, has in fact forbid it for as long as I can recall. (I know that sounds foolish, for could I not go out and buy one for myself in order to be an informed citizen? And yet, breaking this rule seems unbearable, and I could not stand if it Uncle Frederick treated me as he is currently treating Flora.)_

_I shall keep you up to date on what is happening in Palampur, the mood of the town, for as long as I am able. By which I mean, so long as I am not stuck here in the house. Philip has written to me and sent me five pounds! He says I am to use it to escape if it becomes necessary. He says I should try and get to Goa, or all the way down the coast to Cochin. A journey of that length frightens me, and I sincerely hope I will never have cause to use that five pounds on myself! He is a loving cousin, and a good one, though we are barely related by blood, and I think he deserves not only the commendations he has already received, but have high hopes for his future as well._

_As for myself, as I said before I am going to dye silk and cotton. I am keeping busy with my little project, as well as consoling Sophronia with the loss of her fiancee (I am hardly convinced of this, for she was ever a dramatic child, and I see no change in this as we have grown older). Aunt Thomasine remains beside herself with anger at both Flora and Lord Harper. She is determined to ruin Lord Harper's name in this country - to which I wish her luck, in the hopes of not damaging my own reputation._

_Uncle Frederick has taken to his bed. He says he has an awful cold and does not wish to either increase the severity of it, or make others ill. I do believe he is suffering from a case of nerves and melancholy. Sophronia, so bright and fair, was his heart as Flora and I are not. By which I don't mean to suggest he does not care for the two of us, merely that he enjoyed Sophronia's company more than anyone elses._

_I do hope that does not make me sound a poor, jealous companion. I do not envy his attention, if anything I believe I have encroached upon the fatherly affections he should be putting on Flora and Sophronia. Sometimes I think Aunt Thomasine sent Flora off to England far too young. Did you know that Uncle Frederick was called to service shortly after she came into this world, and did not return until shortly before she was aboard Boreas? To not see her again for 10 years - one must miss the important stages of a young person's life, do you not agree? Sophronia was the apple of Aunt Thomasine's eyes, and she could not bear to part with another child as she would do with Philip, who would remain in India for another year before being send to England. Poor Flora, she was a healthy one and was sent off to England as soon as she turned five. Aunt Thomasine tells me Sophronia was a fussy baby, and the only person who could ever quiet her was Uncle Frederick. I suppose their bond must have started then. Pray tell, is there anything I can do that might be of help to him?_

_The other day, against your advice, I went to the market alone. To be honest, it was a quick trip and though I thought of bringing someone with me, I decided it was too much of a hassle, and I did not want to disturb anyone's routine for my simple purchases (a string of marigolds for my room, a silk scarf, peacock feathers, a small bag of turmeric, plus oil and beeswax with which to reconstitute it into a cream for the event Lettice and I are planning for the ball). I stopped by the Orphanage first, to speak to Sister Simpson, and have discovered the most wonderful news! The twins have been re-homed! An aunty and uncle from Amritsar - can you believe it?? That poor mother, to walk all that way, why, it must have been weeks on foot, with child! With children, I should say. I cannot believe any woman could be so hardy as to do so by herself. And then to - to - can you imagine what she went through? In any case, the aunty said that the children were those of her sister, who had run away from home._

_Even more unbelievably, the aunty had a Daguerrotype of the mother! I can tell you, dear Captain, that it was wonderful and awful, seeing that beautiful mother in the hale of her life. For I did see her face, even after the trunk had fallen on her head. It was just a glimpse, but enough to determine the Daguerrotype was true to her. She was lovely, with sparkling black eyes and the most wonderfully shaped lips. It was a wedding photograph, I think, she was dressed in finery, with much jewelry, diamonds dripping from her ears and throat and wrists._

_I know you must think me foolish, to be so excited by such a thing, but the truth is that the children will now live happy lives with their aunt and uncle, and that is no bad thing. They have named the girl Mohisa, which means 'storyteller' in Urdu, and the boy is now Mahmoud, after the Prophet (pbhn). (I hope you do not mind me adding the latter, I have become accustomed to it when I send letters for the staff)(I hope you do not mind that I write letters for the staff)_

_My duties call me away -_

_Yours, Mary Morstan_

 

Thankfully, no one was at home when Mary received the post. Aunt Thomasine had forced Uncle Frederick to go to the tea garden.

"The fresh air will be good for you," she had said, practically shoving him out the door while Mary stood to one side, waiting eagerly for them to leave. Once they were gone, peace and quiet would reign until they returned. 

On the platter were several letters for Uncle Frederick, one for Aunt Thomasine with a London postmark, and a soft parcel wrapped in paper and string addressed to her. From Cawnpore. Mary forced herself to leave Uncle Frederick's letters on his desk, put Aunt Thomasine's on the table reserved for such outside of her bedroom door, before sneaking off to her room to unwrap her package. 

Heart pounding, Mary took the rare precaution of locking her door. Under no circumstances did she wish to be disturbed.

Mary took the folding scissors from her reticule and carefully snipped the knots holding the package together. The package was soft, but there was something of bulk in the center. Laying the scissors to one side, she then collected and knotted the string together to form a small bundle. When she was done she paused and took a breath. Delaying the inevitable, yet she was determined to wring every drop of pleasure that might be had out of the moment. The only packages she had ever received before were those she had ordered for herself - getting one from a friend - from someone who would be more than a friend - was nearly beyond her comprehension. She was giddy from the anticipation, and nauseous from the same. 

Finally she felt calm enough to remove the paper. She carefully pulled it away from the object it was covering, put it on her knee and smoothed it out over and over again, staring at the riches it held. The softness of the package came from a pashmina. She held it up, allowing the heavier items wrapped within it to tumble to the bed. The pashmina was made of fine wool dyed the color of twilight. Delicate tassels hung from each end, black and red. Embroidered upon the last eighteen inches of each end were rayed suns in gold thread, embellished with gold sequins. She threw the pashmina out to its entire length, then drew it back up to wrap around her shoulders. It was long, and warm, and when she closed her eyes and inhaled, it was fragrant with spicy floral incense.

It was a lovely gift. It was more than a lovely gift, it was a gift of appreciation, of knowledge of her temperment. 

Continuing to wear the pashmina, Mary turned her attention to the other items. There was a box the size of her hand, inlaid with mother of pearl and various woods. It took her some moments of trying to open it before she realized it was a secret treasure box. Not only that, but she thought could feel something rattling inside. Holding it up to her ear and shaking it produced a sound that had her even more convinced there was something inside. She slid open the top again, then pressed at the edges of the box until one of the decorated slices moved open to the left. Hidden beneath it was a tiny drawer with an even tinier wooden pull painted red. Within the drawer was a tiny cushion of black fabric upon which was pinned a cameo, Venus la Mer, white upon blue. Mary had to press her hand to her chest - had he really sent this to her? Was he so sure of himself he could send her such a scandalous piece of jewelry? Did he know something about her she did not?

Immediately she put the cameo back into the drawer. It would not do, for anyone to find this. It would not do until they were married, in fact. 

Mary continued to explore the box. She found one more compartment, this one large, taking up fully one third of the space. Gingerly she opened it, but found only a folded letter and a place to store finger rings, of which Mary had none, Aunt Thomasine being a firm believer in Mary wearing no jewelry at all, certain it would turn her into a woman of ill repute. Closing the box up completely, Mary sliced open the top of the letter and began to read.

 

_Dear Miss Morstan -_

_First, please let me assure you that our future offspring will not be so poorly treated by either one of us. Not only could we not afford to send them back to England, I should not wish to be without them as they grew older._

_Now that that is out of the way, I hope to be back in Palampur soon. Perhaps even before this letter. Maybe I shall bring this letter with me and slip it under your door, late of an evening, and you can read it at your leisure knowing that I am but a few minutes walk away._

_I do hope you are correct in your estimation of the aunty and uncle. Either way, I hope the children shall thrive in their new abode. I...must tell you that it is not unheard of for fake relatives to take children from orphanages for nefarious purposes. Seeing as they had a picture of your young palkee-gharry victim, I feel more assured you are right. Mohisa is a very pretty name. What do you think about 'Leila'?_

_I am writing to you from Lucknow. Though other doctors are here, they wanted an additional one to treat the women and children. As you can imagine, some of the women are quite delicate and require extra attention. With all that is going on, I would feel better if they were on a ship to England, in all honesty. I wish you were on a ship to England as well. There is something happening in this country, not like the other times. Please, be extra vigilant, and take care of yourself. I am not so good as to stay my pen from a letter to your Uncle. I simply can not have it that you put yourself in danger needlessly._

_In other, more pleasant news, I have received a letter from my sister, Harriet. I believe I told you she lives with her husband in America? Boston, in Massachusetts. She says she loves it there, and has met many people who have become her close friends. For her sake I desire this to be the truth. She deserves her happiness, as do I. It is an easy thing to forget when you're a soldier on the road, concerned only with your next meal and your next battle and whether or not you should buy a new sheet._

_Yours, Capt. J.H. Watson_

 

_Dearest Captain -_

_Thank you so much for your gift. I cannot express how much it means to me. Not only is it beautiful and warm, but I feel I may curl up in it each and every night. The jewelry - there are no words. I shall have to contain myself to your arrival, which I hope shall be soon._

_News has reached us of the action in Delhi. Will you be sent there, do you think? I am praying for your continued safety. (I have lit candles for you not only in the church, but at the temples, too. I hope you will not find me over-reaching in this regard?)_

_Cpl. Creegan has been sent to Chandigarh, as has Maj. Sholto. Palampur is beginning to empty of its familiar soldiers, while new troops have been sent in. I see many I do not know, and many more I have been introduced to at the Club. I confess I cannot recall their names, though sometimes their faces look familiar to me. I am but the worst kind of woman._

_Although you have not asked about Flora and Sophronia, I must tell you that Uncle Fredrick and Aunt Thomasine have each received letters from Flora. Aunt Thomasine read a bit of hers aloud, and reports that Flora and Lord Harper are due with child in three months. You may recall their marriage was sudden and unexpected, and now we know why. I hope Flora does not regret her decision. What it is they say, 'Marry in haste, repent at leisure'?'_

_The weather here is beginning to turn fine. I look forward to throwing my windows open come the summer, as I have yet to be able to do so this year. There are still very cold nights and days, however (makeing me even more grateful for your gift), and when the wind off the mountains blows just so, I feel as if I might fly off with it, it is so strong._

_Yours, Mary Morstan_

For two weeks, there were no letters from Lucknow or Cawnpore. Mary dallied amongst Uncle Frederick's visitors, listening hard for any information concerning those two towns, and privately wondering if Captain Watson was well and healthy. For all that Uncle Frederick did not say, it was clear he and most of his cohorts were concerned about what the native soldiers were about.

"We are too few in this country," muttered Major Collinge, twirling his wine glass on its foot, around and around. "Her Majesty must invest more of the Army here, and let the Company get about its business."

Across from him, Mr. Henry Dixon shook his head and jerked his ill-fitting jacket down. "Quite the contrary, my dear fellow. We've snipped this so-called rebellion in the bud. These minor flare-ups will happen, all one has to do is make sure the majority of natives are happy and your problem is solved."

"Are you sure, Mr. Dixon?" asked Aunt Thomasine from the far end of the table. "The Times of India suggests things are not as clear-cut as you say. Surely it would behoove you to quash these ridiculous rumours about the grease and the missionaries, though they but do their job, stone cold."

From her seat halfway down the table, Mary ignored what Antonia was saying. Who cared about the latest botanical study when war was being discussed? She ate another spoonful of lettuce soup, just so she could lean forward and hear Major Collinge's answer more clearly.

"Yes, what say you to that?"

Mr. Dixon shook his head again. "The Times of India may be this county's most capitol player, but the British East India Company has a far longer reach, and much more experience with native populations than the Times."

"Or the Army?" said Collinge, clearly not willing to let the matter rest.

"Don't be obtuse, Major," said Dixon, then to Aunt Thomasine. "These things are always far simpler than the papers suggest, because they would not sell papers otherwise. Best leave it to the professionals, I say."

"Mary, are you even listening to me?"

Mary hastily put down her spoon and smiled at Antonia. "Absolutely. But don't you find the conversation fascinating? Being able to listen to the men leading us into battle, or not?"

"No," Antonia went wide-eyed and serious at the same time. "My g-d, you are a funny duck."

"To each their own," answered Mary, abruptly tired of Antonia, no, _everyone_ who wouldn't concern themselves with what was happening. After all, it could affect all of them - it already had! Certainly she no longer felt safe going the market on her own, never mind the temples and the tea gardens, even Uncle Frederick's tea garden. She sat back as the course was cleared, wishing she could just go to the library and read.

"I suppose," said Antonia, drawing an asparagus spear through a smear of butter and lemon juice over and over again. "I don't know why you're so interested in it. We'll all be sent back to England at the first sign of war. Well, not you, of course, but the rest of us will go. I tell you, you cannot imagine a longer voyage. The waves, the sailors, good g-d, the awful food, and that's _if_ you can stomach being on the ocean in the first place. It is all so interminably _boring_. The constant smell of mildew, pfaugh, it is a foul journey and not one to undertake lightly."

"It does not sound pleasant," Mary agreed, though she was quite peeved by Antonia's words. Yes, she knew very well she was a daughter of India, she saw no reason to be reminded of it by everyone around her. Oh, it was obvious no one gave a thought as to how she felt - Mary briefly closed her eyes to regain her equilibrium, opened them again to see the candles in the flower arrangements flickering. 

"Ah, here we are, news at last," boomed Uncle Frederick, getting to his feet. "Captain Watson, how good of you to join us, do come in!"

The bottom fell out of Mary's stomach even as her heart leapt into her throat. The queerest thrill ran through her and she struggled not to seem too eager as she turned to look. 

Captain Watson was with two other men, all of them disheveled, dirt on their clothing and faces, yet it seemed that he was looking directly at her, the slightest curl up to one corner of his mouth.

A moment later he bowed once, twice, to everyone at the table. "My apologies for coming to you in such a state. I thought it best to come here after reporting at the garrison."

"Thugs!" exclaimed Aunt Thomasine.

"What's the situation?" asked Mr. Dixon.

"Lieutenant Hardy and Corporal Smith were accompanying me on my journey from Lucknow to here, when we were set upon by a group of dacoits. We barely escaped with our lives."

"Where was this?" asked Mr. Dixon with no little alarm.

"Just outside of Baijnath. We were set upon by a group of silent men wearing rumal. We managed to kill a few before being dragged off of our horses. I'm not quite sure how we escaped, to be honest, as there seemed to be more of them than us."

One of the men, blood staining the front of his tunic, making the red that much darker, he shook his head and said, "No, sir, they were all down save three that ran off when they saw we was getting the better of 'em."

"Ah, yes, thank you, Lieutenant," said Captain Watson. "There was a cloud of dust down the road, and thinking these would be criminal companions who would be none too pleased to see us standing over their dead fellows, we mounted up without pulling the bodies off the road and came straight here. "

An "Oh!" escaped Antonia, and Mary nearly slapped her for interrupting.

"We didn't dare fight them, sir, not with our numbers. Knowing they had reinforcements in the three that escaped us, we decided to continue straight here."

"Damn it to hell!" cried Major Sholto, making Mary jump when he slapped his napkin on the table, knocking over his water glass with a harsh clink. He got to his feet and took a step before wheeling around to point his finger at Mr. Dixon. "I _told_ you this would be no simple matter!"

"Sir!" Captain Watson said loudly. When Sholto turned to him, he nodded. "We don't know if they were villains or supporters of the Rani. They could have just been a band of roving thieves."

Behind Captain Watson, the red-headed soldier shifted from foot to foot. Uncle Frederick caught the motion and barked, "Yes?"

"Beggin' you pardon, sir, but I think they was with us. Or were with us."

"How do you mean?"

The man glanced at Captain Watson and began his story after receiving a nod from him. "Well, I reckon they're sepoys." 

Everyone stared at at him. He glanced at everyone, shrugged. "Because of the boots."

A sigh of acknowledgment rippled through the men in the room. 

"That's it, then, " said Uncle Frederick, standing up as well. "Ladies, if you will excuse us, we have business to conduct."

Aunt Thomasine was already in the midst of rising, and urged the latecomers up with fluttering hands. "Of course. Mrs. Dixon, allow me to show you the salon - "

Mary let Antonia pass her, hoping for a chance to speak to Captain Watson, who also appeared to be lingering by the door. Once Aunt Thomasine and Mrs. Dixon had gone through, Mary popped up and hastened towards the door. The Captain turned towards her, his easy smile warming her through and through. "Captain Watson, you are very brave to come straight to us after such a fright."

"Miss Morstan. I could hardly be kept away."

Mary blushed, unsure of what to say after such a bold statement. 

"Has a parcel arrived?" he asked, his smile falling a little.

"Oh yes, yes thank you - " 

"Come, Mary, this is no time for your prattle," said Aunt Thomasine, taking Mary by the shoulders and pulling her into the hallway. "Pray excuse us, Captain Watson. You know how young girls can be overcome by the excitement of action."

He bowed slightly. "Lady Glendenning, Miss Morstan."

Desperate, Mary called over her shoulder, "I shall be at the Club tomorrow afternoon for Mrs. Vandermeer's demonstration on flower arranging! Perhaps I shall see you then!"

If he answered her, she didn't hear it over Aunt Thomasine's frigid tone.

"I did not know you were so familiar with Captain Watson, Mary."

"We met some months ago, Aunt Thomasine, and he has been very kind to me," said Mary, walking faster to get out from underneath Aunt Thomasine's gaze.

"I see. Mary."

Mary stopped, staring at the half-open salon door and wishing she were inside already, where Aunt Thomasine wouldn't say what she was about to say. 

"You will not see Captain Watson again."

_What?_ Mary whirled in place, utterly aghast. "But why!?"

Aunt Thomasine clasped her hands together and looked down her nose at Mary. "I will not have you running around with a common soldier."

"But Uncle Frederick introduced us!" cried Mary, clapping one hand over her mouth a second later.

"That may be. But I can tell you've been running around with Captain Watson behind my back and I will not have it, I _will not_ have it!"

"I'm not Flora!" Mary hissed back, suddenly blazingly angry. "I'm not going to run off with some good-for-nothing just because he has money, and I'm not going to get with child just because she did!"

Aunt Thomasine grew icier, but before she could retort, someone from behind Mary spoke. "Mary, are you coming? We need a fourth for Whist."

Mary and Aunt Thomasine glared at one another, then Aunt Thomasine stalked past Mary into the Salon. Mary stood still for a moment, thinking about her options. She could either pretend everything was fine and hope no one had overheard, she could go to the library to think, or she could go to her room. Given her choices and her possible future, it was best to brazen it out, get everyone (including herself), used to the idea of ...something. She wasn't sure yet what the 'something' was, but she felt she was heading towards it, with or without Captain Watson. 

The evening passed. Mary wouldn't have called it pleasant or unpleasant. She played Whist and Cribbage and Pacheesi. She turned the pages for young Eleanor Dixon while she sang _The Ash Grove_ and _Thistle of Scotland_ and others Mary did not know. Aunt Thomasine kept away from her, and that was fine with Mary. She had no wish for further confrontation and quite frankly was torn between mystification and anger. Oh, yes, she understood very well why Aunt Thomasine did not want more embarrassment for her household, but honestly, did she think so little of Mary? And come to think of it, she _had_ been very cool to Mary since Flora had left, hadn't she? Mary had simply assumed that she was concerned for Uncle Frederick and Sophronia, and of course Mary would come last in her list of concerns, yet...Mary grew angrier the more she thought about it. And then, how _dare_ Aunt Thomasine, when she clearly wanted Mary married and out of the house anyway! It was fine for Mary to have a husband, just not one of her own choosing? The logic of it completely escaped her.

Captain Watson was a fine man - Aunt Thomasine had had no issues with him before now. What did she even suspect they were doing together, anyway? Captain Watson had been away for nearly a month! Aunt Thomasine's comments in the hallway were outrageous and hurtful - so hurtful. Thinking on this last, because for all of the times it had been clear Aunt Thomasine didn't care for her, Mary had never thought she was actively disliked. Oh, she had been a fool - a _fool!_ Before this moment, even the with their argument, the evening had been bearable, but now it was utterly ruined and she could not bring herself to stay in the same room as Aunt Thomasine. Mary bid the others goodnight and went to her room, where she undressed and curled up in Captain Watson's beautiful stole.

In the morning, Mary dressed with care. The day overcast, cloud and a stiff breeze coming down the Dhauladar mountains bringing cold air and the threat of rain or worse, snow. One could never tell this far north, what the weather might be from day to day, even in the height of summer. She wore a dress the ancient green of old pine needles, her saffron pashmina for contrast (a color English ladies despised, for some reason), and her good brown coat. She needed to get out of the house and she was, by g-d, going to see Captain Watson. 

After a very long walk, and a light lunch at Middleton's, Mary went to the Officer's Club. Mrs. Vandermeer's flower arranging was deathly dull. Halfway through they broke for tea and chota peg, leaving Mary to wander in search of Captain Watson. She was distracted by the Honor Rolls, not having found him, when he found her instead.

"Hello," he said, coming up on her left with his hands clasped behind his back as seemed to be his habit.

"Captain Watson!" she squeaked, blushing furiously. "I'm so glad to see you. Are you well? You look well?"

He did look fine, cleaned up from the evening before, even the scrape on his face was less violently red, though obviously rough and beaded with dried blood. "I am, thank you. Slept like a baby."

They stood looking at one another, then he offered her his arm and they strolled down the hall, destination unknown.

They took it slow, but Captain Watson pulled her the other way when she went to turn down the hall to the tea room. She had never been down this way before, and looked with great curiosity at the framed Majors and Generals and so on and so forth. She was so busy looking that she hardly realized she had been drawn into a small alcove until Captain Watson pressed up against her, hands cupping her jaw, to kiss her forehead, both cheeks. He did it so quickly she hardly realized what was happening until it was over and he was stepping away.

"Sorry, sorry," he said, shoving his hands behind his back as was his habit. He stared at his boots and rocked back and forth. "The temptation was too great."

"Oh," she said, blinking furiously and wondering if she should be slapping him for impertinence, or something like that, instead of feeling tremendously excited. "I...am not bothered. I mean, I -I - you didn't overstep the bounds."

He glanced at her and must have liked what he saw, for a slow smile spread across his face. He offered her his arm once again - she took it, again - and they returned the way they came. In the public lounge they sat at a table and Captain Watson ordered tea and scones and jam, though she told him he should order something more substantial for himself.

"They do feed us here, Miss Morstan."

"Yes," she said abruptly. "You know you can call me Mary."

Captain Watson's smile dropped. "Yes?"

She nodded, barely able to speak. "Yes."

"Mary."

The way he said it, with warmth and affection, made her feel wonderful, like Christmas and Diwali and New Year's all at once. The feeling wasn't even dampened by the realization she was going to have to tell Aunt Thomasine and Uncle Frederick as soon as she arrived back home. 

They spoke of various things; the gossip in Delhi, the threat of war, the thugs that had appeared out of nowhere despite reports of their existence having been terminated some years before. Eventually Captain Watson brought the conversation round to their liaison, which he preferred to do as soon as possible.

"I'll walk you home, then," he said.

"Oh, that isn't necessary," she said hastily. Perhaps too hastily, as his eyes narrowed. "Uncle Frederick still isn't all that well."

"Our good news will cheer him right up."

Mary frantically tried to think of anything that might keep him away from the house for a day or two. 

"Mary."

She bit her lip. Thankfully she was saved from having to answer immediately by the arrival of the waiter, who arranged their tea things, cups, saucer, and tier of scones and tiny cakes quite prettily.

"They don't want you near me, do they."

"It's not you," she said hurriedly. "With everything that's happened with Flora, Aunt Thomasine has been...preoccupied. She can be...cruel in her desire not to see me do what Flora has done."

Captain Watson reached for her hand and squeezed it lightly before taking the teapot and giving it a gentle swirl. "She doesn't want you to make a marriage that reflects badly upon the family, as your cousin has done."

"Relation," she amended quietly, for she no longer felt she and Flora were cousins in any meaning of the word.

"Relation, then. It doesn't matter to me - no, it _does_ matter to me, how you feel about what you Aunt Thomasine and Uncle Frederick say, for I wouldn't have you hurt by them, not one little bit. Alas, I don't have a fortune with which to ameliorate their impression of me. If you would prefer our engagement to remain secret until some future date - "

"No," she said instantly, shaking her head. "I shall tell them tonight. I beg of you, don't come until I send for you. You might only harden their hearts against you should they catch sight of you unprepared."

"I understand," he said, nodding. "Well, shall we tuck in?"

Later on, recalling the look he had given her, Mary felt a little guilty for damping his spirit in the matter. He deserved to crow about it just as much as she did, and it wasn't fair to him to ask him to hold back on her account. She would not hesitate to tell him when she was with child, she decided. As soon as she was sure, she would surprise him with a cake and a card, or maybe a christening gown and matching cap.

That same evening, long after dinner and Aunt Thomasine retiring to her bed, Mary tapped at the library door. She was on tenterhooks, her stomach roiling with dread for the conversation to come. So engrossed was she with her own thoughts, she didn't realize the door had been opened until a heavy hand clapped on to her shoulder. "Oh!"

"Are you all right?" Uncle Fredrick asked, peering at her beneath his bushy white eyebrows.

"You startled me," she said, trying to peer around him to see if anyone else was in the room. "May I come in?"

"Of course," he said, stepping back. "I was reading Punch and having a go at a puzzle. Have to keep the mind nimble. Now come, sit by the fire and tell your Uncle Frederick the news. It looks to be important, judging by the look on your face."

Mary flashed him a smile and followed him to the sofa in front of the fire, which was crackling away merrily in spite of sun shining brightly outside. Clasping her hands in her lap, she decided to be bold and just tell him. "Uncle Frederick, Captain Watson - Captain Watson has - "

"Ah," he muttered, leaning back and crossing his legs. "Captain Watson, yes. I'd wondered when you were going to tell me."

"Tell...you?" Mary shook her head slightly. "Tell you what?"

He tilted his head to one side, eyeing her sharply. "Did you think I was unaware of the mail that leaves this house? Or how much we receive in return? Were you confident I was so concerned with Flora I would not notice you or Sophronia?"

Mary didn't know what to say. She hardly knew what to think. Had he actually read the letters, or just seen how many there were going back and forth.

"Now, unlike Flora," Uncle Frederick said the name with spite and bitterness, "I see _you_ have not taken care to hide your dalliance with Captain Watson, and that is your one saving grace. That he has written to me several times, and asked after your health in each letter - " he held up one hand to her. " - on a separate page, nothing that will be kept in the archives, stands well in his favour. It is impossible, of course, yet I appreciate his respect and diligence to me. "

"Impossible?" she managed, still shocked by what he said.

"Yes, impossible. While Captain Watson is indeed and intelligent man, and most attractive, or so I have been told by various members of various houses, he is destined for another wife than you."

"Oh."

"As for yourself, I do have a military man in mind," Uncle Frederick rose and went to the cabinet, poured himself a tumbler of golden liquid. "Colonel Sebastian Moran. His father is Minister to Persia, and Moran himself will go far in politics. I could not have made a better match for you if I tried."

Speechless. Mary was speechless. 

"You may remember him from last summer? The gentleman who took down two snow leopards in the Dhauladhar? He won the shooting contest? Tall, dark hair, friendly demeanor? Good grief, girl, do you pay no attention at all?" 

For the first time in her life, the scent of Uncle Frederick's whisky was making her ill. No, she was, in fact, actually ill. Pressing one hand to her stomach, she said, "But I have already agreed to marry Captain Watson?"

Uncle Frederick shook his head. "You shall have to break it. This match is too important for you to get caught up in girlish whims. The joining of our two families will ameliorate Flora's choice, give the gossips something else to discuss _and_ help Sophronia with her own prospects."

He smiled at her, as if he'd discovered the most marvelous object and was delivering it to her with chocolates and roses.

"Uncle Frederick," she nearly whispered. "I've never met him. I know Captain Watson, and I know him well. We have a connection between us...he is kind, and caring, and honest."

"No, I'm afraid it won't work, Mary. If you continue your association with Captain Watson, I shall have no choice but to cut you out of your inheritance. I cannot have such a man gaining that kind of money for no reason."

She had an inheritance? Then the rest of what he said struck her. "Captain Watson is a fine man, a talented surgeon and exemplary soldier!"

Uncle Frederick waved one hand in the air. "Nonetheless, I shall write to Colonel Moran and have him visit. He's only in Lahore, so it shan't be long," Uncle Frederick reached forward and patter her knee before resettling. "I'm glad we've had this talk, cleared the air."

Mary forced her lips to move in an approximation of a smile, rose, and stiffly left the library. She went directly to her room, frozen smile pasted to her lips, closed her door and locked it, took the stole from the armoire and wrapped herself within it, laid down on the bed. She did not cry, and eventually she closed her eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Captain Watson did not call.

Mary did not leave the house.

There were no letters in the post, or messages slipped to her by military men come to dinner. She floated around the house in a daze, unable to account for long periods to time. She slept, and rested, and took to keeping to herself as much as she could. Finally, there was nothing for it; she had to meet Col. Moran.

_"You're too skinny, bibi."_

Mary suffered her stays being pulled even more tightly by Gulab, swaying to and fro until the laces were tied in a knot. Perhaps too tight, she couldn't take a full breath. On went the hoops, the petticoat, the underblouse. Over her head went the dress, pale pink with red roses embroidered upon the cotton, once one of Sophronia's dresses, now tailored to her size. It was not one of her favorite day dresses, she thought it ill suited her dark hair. Gulab and Narinder were of the opposite opinion, and even Aunt Thomasine said she looked pretty in it. 

_"There you are, bibi."_

_"Thank you, Gulab."_

So, it was time.

Mary went downstairs and into the drawing room to wait for the guests with Aunt Thomasine and Sophronia. 

Lieutenant Dawes and Captain Shrike were in attendance, along with Mr. Dixon and his wife, Lettice and of course Antonia, both of whom had become close friends with Sophronia, even though Sophronia had always mocked Antonia behind her back. Mary liked Antonia well enough, though she was bookish with her constant drawings and watercolours of nature. There were enough people for two games of Whist to be played at the same time, with two people sitting out to enjoy the spectacle, or play the piano-forte. Well. She could use this as a way to get used to her new life.

"Ah, Mary, you took your time," Aunt Thomasine said sharply, snapping open her fan with the feathers at the end.

Mary didn't respond. She perched on the chair next to the fireplace, chilled from her head to her feet. She wished she could stay in her room and drink hot soup. She did not feel at all well.

"Mary, I forgot to tell you," whispered Antonia, sitting on the sofa and leaning close. "I received a letter from Flora last week," she glanced around the room to see who might be close enough to listen, and finding the other involved in other conversations, continued. "She is desperate to return to Palampur. She swears she is going to leave Lord Harper - she's even will to give up the child, can you believe it?"

"Only if I heard it from her own lips," answered Mary. "And even then I would not be inclined to believe her. You would do as well to take what she says with more than a single grain of salt."

Antonia nodded sadly, the firelight highlighting the double gold circlet binding her sable hair. "I know you're right. I just can't help but feel she must miss all her friends, must miss her family."

"Nonetheless, she made her bed and must now lie in it," said Mary, parroting Aunt Thomasine. She was beginning to feel some irritation. Flora was the reason she was in this mess. Flora had been selfish and now that she had decided she didn't like the thing she had stolen, wanted to give it back and Mary, for one, was not inclined. Flora had _ruined_ Mary's chances at happiness.

"Colonel Moran! How good to see you again!"

At Uncle Frederick's greeting, Mary took in her husband-to-be. As Uncle Frederick had said, he was tall, with flaxen-haired, and looked like any other man in a uniform. Next to him was a shorter fellow, with large dark eyes and a narrow, pinched face. He was dressed in a plain suit, very well tailored and understated. 

"Lord General Glendenning," Col. Moran bowed slightly and motioned towards his companion. "May I present Professor Moriarty, recently come to this country."

"Ah, Professor, welcome," Aunt Thomasine offered her hand, which the Professor bowed over but did not take.

"Thank you, Lady Glendenning. So kind of you."

Mary didn't know where he was from, but the lilt in his accent was charming. Now was no time to dissemble, however. Feeling light on her feet, Mary stood and went to meet her doom. Or was it her wyrd? The Colonel's attention snapped to her and she couldn't prevent the shiver that ran through her. Unlike her Captain, Colonel Moran's eyes were calculating, the expression on his face - Mary wasn't sure she could put a word to it. Next to him, Professor Moriarty was smiling, but it wasn't pleasant, not to her, at least.

"Miss Morstan," he said. "You look lovely this evening."

Mary bobbed a curtsey. "Colonel Moran, Professor Moriarty. You're too kind."

Aunt Thomasine interceded then, thankfully. Mary was no more inclined to be polite to either man, and while she knew the others were used to her ways by now, it annoyed her to have to fake being polite to strangers. What was more, she already knew that love was not ever going to be part of her marriage to Moran. She resented him greatly, though she would do her duty to him. The more she thought about it, the more she hoped he would find some lover, or lovers, so long as he kept it discrete. Perhaps she ought to tell him so, after the ceremony? No, that would be too forward, and she didn't know him enough to know if she could be forward with him. She pushed thoughts of Captain Watson, who had once called her impertinent, to the back of her mind. They were incomparable men, and she would never _ever_ forgive either Aunt Thomasine or Uncle Frederick for making her marry a stranger.

They were at their third round of Cribbage when the Colonel and his friend excused themselves from the table. As soon as they were out of the earshot, Aunt Thomasine grabbed Mary's wrist, her nails digging in to the underside and making Mary hiss from the pain.

"Mary."

"Yes, Aunt Thomasine," Mary didn't dare try to pull her arm away.

"You must stop this at once, at once! Colonel Moran is the best match you'll ever likely to make, and you're a fool if you don't take it!"

"I don't care for him," said Mary, mindful not to use the word 'love'. Even if that was what she felt, she would never have said so to Aunt Thomasine.

Aunt Thomasine released her and sat back to reshuffle her cards unnecessarily. "You'll do as you're told. I know Frederick has already spoken to you about your inheritance - "

"Why has no one mentioned that to me before?" Mary leaned forward angrily. "You've kept this from me my entire life!"

"And with good reason, as it turns out!" Aunt Thomasine glared at Mary. "Now smile and act as if you enjoy the Colonel's company."

Fuming, Mary sat and played until the game was over, not quite losing herself in the rhythm of finding fifteens. It was a way to pass the time, that was all.

"Pardon me," she said, after the final hand, pushing back her chair. "I'll be back in a moment."

"Of course," said Colonel Moran, half-standing, even though it wasn't necessary. He was no gentleman and she certainly was not a lady.

At the sideboard, Mary poured herself a glass of sweet lemon-mint punch, added a cube of ice from the covered dish of the same. She took a few sips, ignoring the shadow to her left. If she was quiet, perhaps he would go away.

"You're not a fan of games, I take it?" 

Mary made herself relax before facing Professor Moran. "I'm not particularly in the mood for it this evening, Professor, but I do enjoy playing them."

He looked at her sharply, eyed her from head to toe and back again, smiling all the while. "Don't we all. And your game?"

Distantly, Mary heard the high crack of glass breaking, and idly wondered what had happened. Then time sped up again and she realized it was her; she had dropped her glass of punch and now there were flecks of green along the great stretch of now damp fabric glistening in the candlelight.

"Shame, that," said the Professor softly. h raised his eyebrows and shook his head a little. "Don't play games if you don't know the rules, Miss Morstan. They can be dangerous," he raised his voice. "Oh, yes, do be careful, Lady Glendenning, there's a shard right by your foot."

Mary stood apart and let everything flow around her. She felt like that exactly, like a stone in a rushing stream. 

"Memsahib miss," said one of the servants, doing that funny little head bob they did and raising the towel he carried. Mary couldn't remember his name, and then somehow she found herself sitting down again with a new glass of punch in her hands. She had the strangest impression people were looking at her, but every time she looked up, everyone was looking away. She attended to her punch, sitting next to the window. The draperies were closed, so she couldn't even look outside, more was the pity. She would have to wait and endure the evening - it was only just past nine. Hours yet to go, and she couldn't even plead exhaustion.

Thankfully Mary was required to do little more than be a fourth, or a third, or a second. She could play the games because they were familiar, having played them all a thousand times before. Hours later, close to midnight, there was another break for cheese and bread, relish and cold mutton. 

Mary slipped in between the lingerers near the buffet to get a small plate of cheese and bread, nuts and sliced pears in cinnamon scented syrup. To one side of her, Antonia and Mrs. Dixon were discussing their new palette of paints recently come from home, while on the other Professor Moriarty and Colonel Moran were speaking too softly for her to hear. That was fine with her. 

She took a bit of cheese, followed it up with a bite of pear, the flavors mixing perfectly on her tongue, the slight dust of the cinnamon melding with the fatty wax of the cheese, the pear clearing both - she would have to write the recipe down before she married. To remind her of happier times. Or something. Next, an almond coated with crunchy sugar and flavored with cardomom and...another flavour she couldn't quite decipher. Sometime hot - ginger, perhaps? Galangal? Black pepper? Whatever it was, it was spicy and she wanted to steal away the entire bowl.

" - kutcha butcha - "

Mary mechanically chewed and swallowed, not quite believing what she had heard, then realizing that yes, someone had said that in her presence. She looked over towards the speaker - Professor Moriaty was facing Colonel Moran, but he was at an angle and looking directly back at her, a sly little smile his lips. Then Colonel Moran looked over his shoulder at her, and his eyes were cold and spiritless and May knew beyond any measure of a doubt that if she married him, she would be dead in less than a year.

And the Professor had said what he had said in the full knowledge she would overhear. It wasn't as though she had never heard it before, though most people around her used chee chee instead, as if she wasn't standing just there. An endearment that did not make her feel good, even though they said it jokingly, she thought. Occasionally it wasn't said in jest, and those times she strove to remain exactly how she was; hands clasped together in front of her waist _nothing to hide_ , a pleasant expression on her face _she hadn't heard it she wasn't bothered by it_ , she loved her friends _she wanted to scratch their eyes out_.

"How are you, Miss Morstan?"

Mary practiced her pleasant expression by smiling at Mrs. Dixon, and chatting to her as if she wasn't desperate to leave, as if the whole evening was fun, as if she suddenly hadn't started planning when to next see Captain Watson.

"Mary, come here please."

Uncle Frederick stood in the doorway of his study, beckoning her with one hand. Mary's stomach instantly filled with sour dread. Keeping a tight hold of her paint box and brushes, she went in and waited for him to sit behind his desk. He did not offer her a seat, and she did not take one. 

Uncle Frederick leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. His gaze was serious, the way he took her in making her uneasy, even though at the same time she was sure he knew who she was and what she was about. But the calculation was in his eyes, too, and it disturbed her. Had he ever looked at her like that before? She didn't think so. She was determined to remain quiet, and useful, and bare no resentment or hint of impropriety that would make him treat her as he did Flora.

"Colonel Moran has retracted his offer of marriage."

Relief swept through her so fiercely she swayed on her feet, her cheeks heating until she was sure they were flaming. Uncle Frederick swiftly came to his feet and tucked a chair behind her.

"Sit before you fall."

She did, hiding her face behind trembling hands. Thank g-d. _Thank g-d._

"Now is the time to make decisions, Mary," said Uncle Frederick, taking the seat next to hers. "Though your Aunt Thomasine would prefer you to remain with us as her companion, I have already made plans to return to Somerset. I have some business to conduct there, and it is long past time I brought her home."

It was clear he thought he was being gentle with her, but Mary understood exactly what he was doing. Aunt Thomasine would be embarrassed to bring her to England, the Anglo-Indian get of her husband's pathetic brother. She would be little more than an exotic slave, knowing no-one and having no resources to fall back upon. At least here in India she had choices, and she was glad she would not marry Colonel Moran - what was to become of her? Captain Watson - she could assume nothing where he was concerned.

"So the question remains, what shall we do with you?"

Mary shook her head. "I don't know, sir."

"Mm. Well. I thought you should know where things stand."

"Thank you."

Uncle Frederick patted the arms of his chair and stood up. "Good! Let's enjoy what time we have left together, shall we?"

Leaving the house felt too fraught, even though she wanted to run away at the same time. In the hallway Mary paused, then quickly returned to her room. Putting her box and brushes away, she settled at her desk and thought about her life. The routine of Cedar House had been an oasis of calm, of the known quantity. Here was safety, warmth, comfort and routine. Here was her Northern facing bedroom, its walls soft white, with a window seat overlooking the side garden. She had her things; books and ink and paper, brushes and paints and an easel, clothing which while not the same quality as that of Flora and Sophronia, better than most. She had plenty to eat, and a hot bath whenever she wanted for it. 

Since Uncle Frederick's announcement, however, all she wanted to do was run away. To where, and to do what, she did not know. Up to this point she had studiously ignored what might have been her fate and was now her immediate future; the prospect of living life without the protection of family or a husband. Her choices were few, in fact - Mary went to her desk and took out paper and a pencil. She sat down and began to write.

_1) teach_  
2) nanny  
3) England  
4) nun  
5) ? 

Biting her lip and going over her list repeatedly, she could come up with no other career. Perhaps she should list the negatives?

_1) a woman of leisure_  
2) nanny  
3) ? 

'Woman of Leisure' was putting it kindly. She had zero desire to become a randii, yet she was not so foolish as to immediately cross it off the list. There were many Anglo-Indian women for whom prostitution was the only option. There were a few here in Palampur, of course, always coming up from Delhi and Simla in the hot season, sometimes even in the company of their English patrons. Looked down upon, obviously. Mary was used to the sidelong glances, the speculation, from Of course it was impossible, and yet - she would need to live, somehow. But she would go somewhere else, somewhere she was not known - Cochin, or Calcutta. Bombay was too close, though Cochin was so very far away...even Lahore was too close. There was the little matter of money, too. She had the five pounds Richard had given her, and maybe three more out of the assorted change from the items she had bought over the years. Perhaps Uncle Frederick would be kind enough to give her a few pounds more before he left, a sort of settlement?

She was sure she could be a nanny easily enough. She was an educated woman, though not formally. Being Sophronia's companion meant she had been taught her letters too, and the mostly the rest of what respectable young ladies needed to know; drawing, painting, dancing, French, a little bit of piano, a little bit of singing. As she had told Captain Watson, she was a reader, had, in fact, read nearly every book in Uncle Frederick's not inconsiderable library. She had taught herself Latin and a little bit of Greek, though the pronunciation of it was beyond her, and while she had not mentioned it to anyone, had read many of Mr. Darwin's essays, and of course von Humboldt's as well, which had gained her a friend in Antonia. 

Surely that meant she could also be a teacher? At the orphanage, if nothing else. There would be no pay, only food and a room, which did not appeal to her. She was not a fine lady, yet she had no desire to give up every comfort, either. 

Which left being a nun - she scratched it out - or going to England. To do what, though? While Flora spoke of England as home, and Mary could practically picture it in her mind from what everyone had said, how would she fit in? How _could_ she fit in, looking like she did, and behind who she was? She doubted Uncle Frederick would write introductions for her, though perhaps she was doing him a disservice, maybe he would be happy to do so...or least feel guilty enough to do so. What had he said, she had time to choose what she wanted to do? 

Mary shook her head and crumpled up the paper, then smoothed it out again and folded it up, sticking it into the shallow desk drawer out of sight. G-d, she had to do something! A walk, she would go for a walk to clear her head. 

Decision made, Mary quickly changed out of her robe and into her sturdiest walking boots and warmest cape. She was tempted to wear Captain Watson's stole underneath, but had no desire to explain where or who it had come from, should anyone comment about it.

The weather threatened heavy rain, but Mary was not deterred from her walk. Despite the blackness of the clouds above, the green of the tea gardens called. She loved visiting the rows and rows of green bushes, their fresh scent and deep green, slightly sweet flavour. Labourers were in the fields, the women providing occasionally brilliant sparks of color with their dhathus over their heads in saffron and lapis, rose pinks and aphid greens, egg yolk yellow and cerulean blue. Not for the first time, Mary wondered if she would have been better off, being raised as a native. She had her doubts. Her memories of that time at her Grandparents had been mixed. Yes…she had been glad enough to leave, when Uncle Frederick had asked, jihaan, she had said, _yes._

Clouds scudded above as a cold breeze pressed against her. A few drops of rain darkened her own deep olive dress and she wondered if she should have brought an umbrella, or at least a parasol. Another gust of wind staggered her, and even the tea pickers started to drift down the long columns between the bushes, heading towards the four way crossing that in turn lead to the gate. If they were giving up for the day, she probably should, too. Mary lingered, though, to drink her fill of the garden and its pleasant rows of green, symmetry in gentle waves down the hillside and up again where it met the distant forest. Finally, as it began to rain in earnest, she turned away from the fields and began to make her way back to The Cedars. And yes, it was The Cedars, now, as it was no longer home.

Mary was soaked by the time she got home. The very heavens had opened up halfway down the road, an icy rain completely drenching her cape, though it were made of good wool, and rendering her boots useless. Shivering hard, once she was in her room she had to ring for a servant to help her undress. Even spending a good hour in front of the fire failed to warm her completely, leaving her to go to dinner with blue-ish fingertips and two layers of stockings, almost too thick for her to wear her slippers comfortably. The soup was the best part of the meal, she could easily have had bowls of the stuff, but not wanting to draw any more attention to herself than necessary, she forebore a second bowl and picked at the cold beet salad, the sliced ham, the fresh bread. She left the table as soon as it was polite to do so, pleading exhaustion. Aunt Thomasine pursed her lips in annoyance, but allowed Mary to leave without fuss.

Her dreams that night were...odd. A terrifying mix of grinning faces with sharp white teeth, Colonel Moran's dead eyes and Professor Moriarty's mocking glances, hideous nightmares where she was pushed and pulled and no one came to her rescue to matter how she cried out. On top of that, she baked under the heat of the summer sun, fell under the spell of the spring monsoon, only the water was warm and greasy and no matter how often she wiped her brown, she was always damp. Occasionally she woke to have a sip of water from the carafe on the bedside table, but it never seemed to quench her thirst, so that when she finally opened her eyes to an overcast sky glimpsed where the window shutters left a gap, she simply rolled to her side and drank the entire glass of water without stopping. She emptied the carafe into the glass, drank the rest of that, too, her hand shaking so badly she spilled some of it on herself in the process. 

Task accomplished, Mary managed to set the glass back down, then slowly sat up. G-d, she felt terrible. So tired. She must have dreamed too hard for too long. And been under too heavy a cover, her nightdress was cold and clammy now that she was no longer under the blankets. A delicate sniff determined what she thought; she was rank with old sweat. Nothing a bath wouldn't solve. Getting to her feet, she was surprised her legs were still shaky. Admittedly, she had nearly twisted her ankle in yesterday's poor conditions, but surely it had not been so bad as to affect the rest of her body? Strange.

Mary tugged the bell pull twice before returning to her bed. She still needed more sleep. Shame she would have to wait until later in the evening. Coffee would help.

The door was flung open and Gulab burst in, took one look at her, and cried, "Memsahib miss!" before disappearing from view again.

That was...odd. Not like Gulab at all. She had not closed the door behind herself, either. Mary tucked the blankets around her legs, then pulled the top one over her shoulders. She wished she had thought to lay her dressing gown on the bed the night before, but it was all the way in the armoire and quite frankly, she just did not have the strength to walk over there unassisted. Soon enough she heard the clatter of boots and heels in the hallway, and voices besides.

"Yes, memsahib, she was awake, I swear it!"

Mary frowned. Who was Gulab talking about? The girl was first into the room, followed by Aunt Thomasine and...Dr. Peabody? 

"Mary!" Aunt Thomasine swept across the floor to put one hand against Mary's forehead. "You gave us quite a fright!"

Bewildered and looking back and forth between the three of them, Mary said, "I'm sorry?"

Dr. Peabody was dragging her desk chair across the floor to her bedside. "Lady Glendenning, if you would mind stepping back, please? Thank you. Miss Morstan," he said, peering at her above the rim of his glasses. "Can you tell me how you feel?"

"Tired, but all right."

"Tell me what you remember."

Mary blinked at him, at Aunt Thomasine, at Gulab. She shrugged a little. "I came home from a walk and went straight to bed?"

"And that's all?"

"Should there be anything else?"

Dr. Peabody - he was a kind man, she knew that from the one time he had visited the orphanage - sighed and straightened before resuming his elbow-on-knee stance. "Miss Morstan, you've been very ill. You were unconscious and feverish for two days."

"No," said Mary, shaking her head and looking to Aunt Thomasine for confirmation. "No, that's not possible!"

"Yes, it's true. Today is Thursday. You've been in this bed, insensible, since Monday evening," answered Aunt Thomasine. "Now that you're awake, this house can get back to its routine!"

"Let's have a listen to your heart," Dr. Peabody said, fishing a hearing horn from his pocket.

Mary dutifully sat still and breathed deeply when asked, uncomfortable with being so undressed and grateful Gulab was stoking the fire.

"Youth," pronounced Dr. Peabody, putting away the horn. He patted her knee, but completely missed and felt up a lump of blanket instead. She smiled anyway. 

"Youth has kept you from death's door, but I advise against taking such risks again. Keep to the house for the next few days, take soup and tea as hot as you can stand it. No baths, we don't want you taking another chill."

"Yes, Dr. Peabody," she said, noting Gulab's pinched expression behind him. She quite agreed. A chill was preferable to her current stink of old, sour sweat and grime.

"Excellent. I'll tell Lady Glendenning to send for me should you not improve."

Once again she nodded, sighing with relief once the door closed behind him. "Tell me there's hot water?"

Gulab nodded. "Yes, memsahib miss. We thought you want to bath as soon as possible."

" _You_ are both stars," said Mary, standing and slowly tottering to the armoire. She leaned against the closed door heavily and caught her breath. Okay, at least she now had an explanation as to why she felt so poorly. On the other hand, she had reasons to ignore all social invitations for at least another day, which meant she could think, and plan, and send letters.


	4. Chapter 4

All in all, it was Saturday before Mary felt well enough to rejoin the family at table. A late luncheon, which was fine with her as it meant a laden sideboard, and her appetite had fully recovered. Oddly enough, Aunt Thomasine and Uncle Frederick were elsewhere, along with Sophronia, leaving only Letty and Antonia and, of all people, Vanessa Parker, to visit.

"Miss Parker," Mary murmured as she slowly sat down.

"Miss Morstan," replied Vanessa, equally politely, buttering a roll. "Now that we have that out of the way, how are you feeling?"

"Much better, thank you," Mary looked at the plate Letty had gotten for her. After the last few days of soup, the plate of plain rice, boiled egg, chopped cucumber and tomato salad, and slice of toast was almost more than she could stomach.

"You must be sick of soup," Letty said. She pointed at Mary's plate. "I want you at the egg, if nothing else."

"Yes, memsahib," Mary joked, realizing only a moment later what she had said and how it made her sound.

Thankfully the lot of them had plenty to chat about, mostly who fancied whom, who was returning to England, whether or not they should all go to the coast as the troubles showed no signs of dying down. Mary contented herself with her egg, dared another and a few bites of rice before putting down her fork and claiming fullness.

"You've hardly eaten a thing!" cried Vanessa, her ridiculously green eyes the perfect foil for her auburn hair.

"Oh, it's more than enough," said Mary, laying her serviette on the table.

"What were you thinking, cousin," asked Letty earnestly, leaning over her plate and endangering the long lace points hanging from her shoulders. "You of all people should have known better than to go out this time of the year!"

Mary shook her head. "I wasn't. I just needed to get out of the house, clear my head a bit."

Vanessa nodded. "Is it because of Colonel Moran?"

"Oh!" Antonia frowned. "I'm glad you're not to marry him."

"I...does everyone know?" Mary could not suppress the quaver in her voice, and she immediately felt so foolish because of it.

Letty reached over the table and squeezed Mary's hand. "News of the broken engagement has made the rounds, yes. You needn't fear; he has taken the blame for it. Said he was so eager to wed in these precarious times that he did not take into consideration the tenderness of your feelings toward him."

"He said he wanted to make sure your options did not include a soldier who was likely to die in battle," said Vanessa with one raised eyebrow. "And I think we all know what that means."

"We do?" Mary said faintly.

"He changed his mind."

"Vanessa!" protested Antonia and Letty at the same time.

"Oh please," said Vanessa, waving one hand dismissively. "He's a bastard and you're better off without him."

Quite frankly, Mary was shocked by Vanessa's blatant honesty. To have actually heard it said aloud, what she herself thought -! She felt weak with relief. Staring at her plate, she took another two mouthfuls of rice and a cube of cucumber, aware of the others waiting for her to speak. Without looking up, she said, "I know."

They shifted in their seats, satisfaction in the air.

"I thought it was sudden," said Antonia quietly. "I know you are not one to take such things lightly."

"No," Mary said. G-d, that at least one person knew her better than Uncle Frederick was a blessing. And perhaps she could rely on them to help her with her dilemma. Looking at them each in turn, she told her story. "I only met Colonel Moran some few weeks ago. Uncle Frederick introduced us and...I did not take to him. Uncle Frederick was adamant that we marry, so as to offset Flora's marriage."

Vanessa rolled her eyes and mumbled through the roll she was eating, "More fool her. That man is all flash and no munition."

From Letty and Antonia's glances, they didn't know what Vanessa was talking about, either.

"Don't mind me," she said, buttering another bit of roll. "Let's just say that I've been around long enough to see all types of characters in this world, and while Lord Harper is very pretty, looks aren't everything."

Letty tilted her head and looked at Vanessa. "And you would know?"

"Do y'know, I would," Vanessa pushed away her plate to put her arms on the table. She leaned forward conspiratorially. "As I am independently wealthy and beholden to no one save a maiden Aunt who traveled all the way to California by herself when she was a young woman, I have found that I attract a wide variety of men who are intent upon making me their wife as their mission."

"I could never travel by myself," said Antonia. "Especially around the world!"

Vanessa smiled a little, shrugged. "Money helps. But in truth I am not the only one. I have met other female travellers, with and without husbands, some with children, some without. "

"I think you are very brave," said Letty, laying her fork and knife to one side. "I would be too frightened."

"You just have to pretend you know what you're doing."

Possibly the best advice Mary had never asked for.

A small silence fell, and then Antonia turned to Mary. "I'll miss you when you're gone."

"Gone?"

"To England," Antonia said patiently. "I wish I were going in your place. My grand-mere has an estate in Dorset, and another in France."

"France is very pretty," added Vanessa.

This was it - this was her chance - "I'm not going with them. Uncle Frederick wants me to stay behind."

"What?" said Letty, sitting back in her chair abruptly. "Whatever for?"

"I don't know. I think it's the embarrassment," said Mary, and at their look of confusion, a moment later added, "My coloring..."

Vanessa was the first to blink. "You mean - ah. Yes. That."

All at once Mary felt speaking up was a mistake. She should have kept her own counsel and not bothered those who had no understanding or interest in her own problem.

"What are you going to do?" asked Antonia. "Will you be allowed to stay here?"

Wordlessly, Mary shook her head. And then burst out with - "I don't know! I don't know what I am to do or where I am to go!" - followed by a flood of tears that shamed her even further. There was a gentle touch on her wrist, and a murmured conversation but she could not stand it, she had to get away from their pity. Jumping up from her seat, she walked as quickly as she could out of the room, half-blinded from her own hands covering her eyes. Unfortunately she bumped into someone

She caught a glimpse of red in front of her and then she bounced off of it. Startled, she dropped her hands and stared straight into the storm blue eyes of Captain Watson.

"Miss Morstan - good evening."

Rattled, at first she could not speak. In fact, she tried and nothing came out of her mouth.

"Miss Parker, Miss Collins, Mrs. Meadows," he said, bowing to each.

"Captain Watson," said Vanessa, sidling around Mary and giving her a wide-eyed look Mary could not interpret. "How lovely to see you again. We were just about to retire to the salon, would you care to join us?"

"Perhaps another time. I...hoped to speak to Miss Morstan for a moment."

Vanessa nodded, a cheery (and fake, Mary knew) smile gracing her lips. "Of course. I'll plan on beating you cribbage, Mary, I hope you're prepared."

An out, if she needed it, which was very kind of Vanessa. Mary had always found the American crude and abrasive, but tonight, tonight she had given Mary everything she had needed to hear without even realizing it, and Mary was grateful. A moment later she and Captain Watson were alone in the hall, and she had no idea what to say.

"I was in the area and thought I would say hello."

Mary nodded mutely. Oh g-d, the water would not stop coming to her eyes.

"Mary," he put a finger to her chin and pressed gently until she obediently looked him in the eye.

"Have you nothing to say to me?" he asked, bitterness in his tone.

She shook her head, noting the way he had tucked his hat under his arm, how tightly he gripped the brim.

"Colonel Moran is a wealthy man. Far better than a lowly doctor."

"It was not me!" she cried, stamping her foot in angry misery. "I had nothing to do with it! Uncle Frederick said I was to marry him, and I was not to write to you on pain of losing an inheritance I didn't even know I had!"

"I - what?"

"Do you see?" she asked, voice trembling, vision blurry with more tears. "It was not me..."

"So...your engagement to Colonel Moran...was not of your doing?"

Mary felt a tear leave her eye, watched it darken the toe of her violet slipper. "Of course not!"

Captain Watson put his hand under her chin and pressed up until she was forced to look at him. Whatever he saw pleased him, for he nodded once and let her go. "I'll call on you tomorrow afternoon. If that's amenable."

Mary jerkily nodded.

And then he was gone.

Given she had nothing to report, the others soon left their speculating in order to do more interesting things, such as play games until quite late in the night. Mary was truly exhausted by the time she went to bed, and subsequently rose late in the morning, far closer to noon than she would have preferred. Knowing that Captain Watson was coming, she took a long bath and dressed in her second best gown, an autumnal plaid in shades of brown and red and pine green. She also took care with her hair, adding in two side braids where she would normally only put her hair in a bun without any embellishments at all. John's cameo just under her over-shirt's collar, where no one else would see. Dark slippers. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she was satisfied that she looked presentable, without being overly dressed. Appropriate for afternoon day wear.

Aunt Thomasine and Sophronia were already at the table when Mary arrived for luncheon.

"There you are," said Aunt Thomasine. "I thought we might not see hide nor hair of you for another few days."

"I'm feeling much better, Aunt," answered Mary, helping herself to a spoonful of spicy tomato compote.

"Mm."

"I haven't been feeling very well, myself," added Sophronia. "The trip to Calcutta was ghastly - ghastly! The roads were half washed away, the palkee-gharry's springs were broken, and, to make it even worse, Madeleine wasn't even at home! I ask, what was the purpose of going there? I should have stayed at home, I could have saved myself so much trouble."

Aunt Thomasine tsked. "Sophronia, may I remind you the trip was your own idea, and no matter how much I tried to dissuade you from making it at this time of year, you went ahead and organized it anyway?" 

"But - " 

"Aunt Maddy would be more than happy to see you at any other time. "

Sophronia pouted and played with her fork. Mary had never met the mythical Aunt Maddy, who had traveled with Aunt Thomasine from England all those years ago. From what she had overheard, Uncle Frederick found her barely tolerable, and if he had his druthers, would have shipped her back to England as soon as he possibly could. Sophronia was fond of her, and if Flora could have moved in with her, she would have. Uncle Frederick, however, was adamant Aunt Maddy's influence be negated at all costs. 

Aunt Thomasine looked over Mary's shoulder. "Yes, Jones, what is it?" 

"Beg pardon, ma'am, Miss Mary's wanted by his Lordship." 

Mary twisted in her seat. "Me?" 

"Yes, ma'am," said Jones, her very bearing tight with disapproval. 

"Oh, um, all right," Mary shot Aunt Thomasine a quick glance before rising, but her Aunt was more concerned with the list she was working on than Mary. Jones led her to Uncle Frederick's office, radiating irritation. She made Mary miss Aunt Thomasine's previous maid, who had died of malaria several months previous. Flora had brought Jones back, whereupon Aunt Thomasine had immediately co-opted her. 

To Mary's great surprise, Captain Watson was there too, standing in front of Uncle Frederick's desk, hands behind his back as usual. One corner of his mouth turned up slightly when he caught sight of her. As for Uncle Frederick, his face was like thunder. He did not rise as she approached the desk. 

"Mary, Captain Watson has a proposal for you," said Uncle Frederick sourly. 

Captain Watson turned toward her slightly. "My offer stands, if you will still have me." 

Mary's heart leapt into her throat. The world twisted to one side, then she was being helped onto a chair by both men. "Sorry," she murmured, holding one hand to her head. Captain Watson crouched next to her while Uncle Frederick handed her a glass of...sherry, by the smell. It held no appeal, yet she brought it to her lips for a tiny sip anyway. 

"Sorry," she repeated, darting a glance at Captain Watson. "I...your question...I did not expect it, not now." 

Uncle Frederick settled back in his chair. "None of us did," he said sourly. "Are you sure this is a decision you want to make, Captain Watson?" 

"I wouldn't have asked, otherwise." "Still," Uncle Frederick made a short, sharp gesture towards Mary. "This sort of thing is frowned upon these days." 

This sort of thing? Was he referring to her, or to the marriage? Yes, such mixed marriages were rare now, yet his very own father had done one! "You could be hurting your military career. I could ruin your military career!"

Captain Watson smiled, rocked back and for on his feet a little. "Mary, go pack your things."

Mary shot a look at him - he wore the same smile as he had when he had rescued her and Sophronia that night so long ago. The smile that had made all those men, soldiers and civilians alike, jump on their feet and pay attention. Uncle Frederick was getting to his feet - Mary stood and quickly went to her room. She packed a bag of clothing - her black dress suitable for all occasions, stockings, a spare chemise, her favorite muslin dress, white with the embroidered red paisleys on the trim, her good, serviceable olive dress, the cream with the elephants, the cloth she had dyed indigo weeks ago. She agonized over the yellow dress - it was one of her favorites, but if she put it in the bag she would have no room left - maybe Uncle Frederick would send it on to her.

What jewelry she had, including a ring her grandfather had given to her mother, or so said the note, a simple gold necklace with a pearl drop, and two cloisonne bracelets Sophronia had given her after she tired of them. It all went into a small bag she was able to tuck into the hidden pocket of her dress. Hair brush, soap, her good leather slippers, the little pot of night creme for her face. Oh, her good pen and a few folded sheets of paper - was that it? Was this all she was going to bring with her? Looking around the room, there was so much more she could take, dresses she loved, the little things she had collected over the years...Mary took the bag's handle with both hands and dragged it to the door. It was not particularly heavy, but she found she was weak from her illness. She would have to take something out.

When she closed the door to her room, she did not even glance at the yellow dress, crumpled on the floor in a heap.

Captain Watson was waiting for her outside the study door. He was glaring at its occupant, presumably Uncle Frederick, but then he saw her and his face lightened. "All set?" he asked, taking her bag and shouldering it with ease.

Mary nodded. Ignoring the open study door, she retrieved her cloak and hat, put them both on along with her good leather gloves.

"Mary!"

Uncle Frederick stood in the hallway when she turned around, Aunt Thomasine and Sophronia appearing a moment later.

"Frederick?" asked Aunt Thomasine, craning her neck to look up at him. "What's going on? Mary?"

"Miss Morstan is coming with me, Lady Glendenning."

Behind Aunt Thomasine, Sophronia gasped.

"Mary, is this true?" cried Aunt Thomasine, her face reddening.

Mary shook her head in disbelief. "You've never wanted me here, don't try and pretend that I'm a full member of the family now!"

"You'll always be my cousin!" called Sophronia, stepping forward only to be barred by Aunt Thomasine's arm. "What, she is!"

To which Aunt Thomasine responded with a slap so hard Sophronia was knocked against the wall. Sophronia looked back, wide-eyed, hand to her cheek, staring open-mouthed at Aunt Thomasine before bursting into tears.

"Come on," murmured Captain Watson, guiding Mary outside with a hand against her back. "I hoped you would say yes, so I took the liberty of hiring a horse, it's just around the corner."

As she walked next to him, Mary found herself utterly shocked at what she had done. She was free, now, of that she had no doubt. She had made her choice, for good or ill, and every decision from now on would be her husband's - her husband! - and her own. She hoped. Captain Watson was clearly a man used to being obeyed - he was a soldier, of course he was - and for all the time she had spent around soldiers, she still was not sure what to expect. Though Aunt Thomasine had a prime role among women (Mary had heard plenty of people who thought Aunt Thomasine was a paragon for any young lady to emulate), it seemed to Mary that Uncle Frederick tolerated her, just short of mocking her. He loved her - she thought? Or at least treated her with due care and consideration.

"There we are."

The palankeen was...a palankeen. She had seen many English women travel in them, yet had been prohibited from their use by Uncle Frederick, who wanted English coaches for English people. The roads up this way weren't good enough for coaches, and barely passable for palkee-gharry, the hills too steep for rickshaws.A palankeen, though… well, she wasn't purely English, was she? "No."

"No?"

She gestured toward the palankeen. "I'll walk, before I climb in there."

Captain Watson slowly nodded, but it seemed to her his eyes brightened.

"Shall I lend you my Brandy, then?" he took hold of the horse's bridle. "She's a good horse, she'll not give you any trouble."

The horse, clearly one of the local breed, had been groomed and was well taken care of, which raised her estimation of Captain Watson even higher. "But what about yourself?"

"I'll collect one along the way."

A moment later she was astride Brandy, her bag laced atop John's soldierly gear, John walking beside her.

Leaving Palampur with little hope of return was strange. Mary looked about as if she were seeing it for the last time, and who knew, perhaps she was. The old familiar sights brought a pang of nostalgia to her heart. Her heart was a little less fond of going through the high street and the market, but she resolutely stared ahead and ignored the shocked looks she was given by by those she knew from the Club and those she didn't. Word would spread like wildfire that Miss Mary Morstan was not only in the company of a soldier, riding his horse, but she was doing so in a most unladylike manner! So she was not sidesaddle, if anything she was far more comfortable and didn't fear breaking her own neck should she fall off! The scandal of it would come back to haunt Aunt Thomasine and Uncle Frederick, she was sure of it. Damn them both, it would serve them right!

They went northwest, John buying another horse with actual cash along the way. After an hour of riding the beast, he announced that he had indeed gotten a bargain, and named it Rosie.

They took the road to Lohna, and just as Mary was about to ask if they could stop so she could stretch her legs, they stopped at a two story building sitting by itself at a crossroads. It was of the long variety familiar from the few Northern temples Mary had seen. There were wide steps up to a long, whitewashed porch, and the tiled roof curled up at the edges. A sign underneath the porch said McCutcheon's Hotel.

"Let me tie up Rosie, here...there we are. She's a good girl, she is," said Captain Watson as he dismounted, patting the horse on the shoulder before coming to Mary."Now you drop Brandy's reins and she stops like nothing. Best horse in all of India."

Her seatbones aching from the long ride and her whole body stiff with cold, Mary slowly pulled her leg over the saddle and then her supporting foot from the saddle, sliding down fast until she was standing once more. Instantly she gasped from the shock, pain lancing from her toes through to her ankles. Leaning hard against the saddle, trying to catch her equilibrium from the surprise of it, she was surprised again at John's touch upon her elbow.

"G-d, I'm sorry, I should have thought to warn you. I'm sure you've gone on a ride this long, the inaction stiffens your joints. Next time rotate - your ankles, that is to stay, pull your feet from the stirrups and make circles with them to increase blood flow."

Mary closed her eyes and nodded, feeling foolish for not having thought of it herself.

"McCutcheon's may not look the best, but it's clean and tidy inside. You'll like Mrs. McCutcheon, I think, she's been here a long time and has seen everything. She does a full English breakfast, in fact she's happy to provide any and all meals should you prefer, and there's plenty of hot water for bathing."

Captain Watson was positively babbling, Mary realized. Why, he must be as nervous as she - perhaps even more so. She felt a fresh wave of despair - what had she done?

"Miss Morstan? Mary?"

Heartsick, she looked up at him, shaking her head. "I shouldn't have come - I've made a terrible mistake!"

His brows drew down. "How do you mean?"

"I've ruined your career! How can you ever go back, knowing what I've done to you?" she cried, wringing her hands together and taking sick pleasure in the pain from the cold, even through her gloves.

He took her by her shoulders. "Stop - Mary, just stop!"

Startled, she did just that.

"We are fine. I am fine. If I were to be kicked out of the Army tomorrow I would be fine. I'm a doctor, that's a career for life unless you start murdering your patients. The world is our oyster and we need not stay in this country if we so choose," he stopped, and then he smiled. "Do you not know how happy you've made me today?

Without waiting for her reply, he drew her tightly against him, then released her just as quickly. "Come, let's get settled, and then we can talk more."

Inside McCutcheon's there was a crackling fire, and soft lamplight, and conversation that paused when they walked in. Mary was not only aware of the warmth of highly polished wooden floors, of soft carpets and potted plants and a seating area of filled with gentlemen smoking pipes and drinking beer, but of a woman Aunt Thomasine's age striding towards her with arms outstretched.

"Captain Watson, who is this darling girl?"

"Mrs. McCutcheon, this is Miss Mary Morstan. "

Mrs. McCutcheon glanced sharply at Captain Watson as if Mary wasn't even there. Mary thought she was displeased for a second, but that was forgotten as Mrs. McCutcheon removed Mary's gloves and started rubbing her hands.

"Oh, you poor thing, you're freezing! Masood, prepare room twelve!"

Mrs. McCutcheon was certainly not averse to shouting. Mary politely looked away, hoping her surprise wouldn't show. At first she eyed the men, who were a mix of military in red and white, and civilians in tweeds lounging about on couches and chairs by the fireplace, but she found their returning scrutiny too much, and looked everywhere else instead. Reception and a hallway was behind their host, and to the left a set of doors which presumably led to the rooms.

"I think what would suit you best is some nice tea."

"And I think something to eat, yes?" added Captain Watson with both eyebrows raised.

Mary was a little overwhelmed by their combined attention, and so simply nodded in return.

"Of course. Captain Watson, do you have anything to bring inside?"

Captain Watson blinked. "Ah, yes. I'll be back in two ticks."

Mrs. McCutcheon slipped Mary's arm over her own and took her down the open hall past reception. "Now tell me, dear, are you all right? There's nothing funny going on? I ask only because I know Captain Watson well, and never once has he brought a young lady to this establishment."

Mary decided not to acknowledge how Mrs. McCutcheon had paused before saying 'young lady'. Captain Watson was a man and of course had had...his life before meeting her had no impact on how she thought of him now. That was his past, no concern of hers.

"This way to the dining room, dear."

The dining room led directly off of the hallway and was kindly apportioned. The tables had white tablecloths and little bowls of greenery. It was a bit cooler in here, but that was alright. Mrs. McCutcheon brought Mary to a table between a window overlooking the valley and the fireplace. They had just seated themselves when a man in a white salwar khameez, a long, loose grey wool vest, and a navy turban came in with loaded tea tray

"You haven't answered my question," said Mrs. McCutcheon, doing Mary the honor of pouring the tea.

"We're going to get married," Mary said quietly, the words strange to tell another person.

"Are you? But that's wonderful," Mrs. McCutcheon added plenty of milk and three lumps of sugar to the cup, then held it out to Mary. "Drink that up, hot as you can."

"Have you known Captain Watson long?" ventured Mary, stirring her tea and wondering if she was even going to like it with so much sugar in it. When she looked up again another tray was being deposited on the table next to them, brought in by a different man. He set one three tiered stand filled with cakes and little tiny sandwiches on the table, added a plate of butter, pots of seedy dark red jam, marmalade, and chunky date paste, along with a basket of rolls, the scent of which bespoke their heated status.

Mrs. McCutcheon put two of the tiny sandwiches on to a plate, along with two curls of butter and a roll and put it next to Mary's cup. "For some time. He stays with us whenever he gets the chance."

Mary took a sip of tea - it was possibly the most delicious tea she had ever had in her entire life. It was milky, it was sweet, it was hot. Mary tried not to inhale the entire cup in one go, but judging by Mrs. McCutcheon's smirk she was unsuccessful. She tried a sandwich - egg and cress, just like she would have had at home. It was delicious, so delicious that she polished off another two before Captain Watson made his reappearance.

"Sorry I'm late, I took the liberty of bringing your bag to the room. Mrs. McCutcheon, I'm parched."

"No doubt."

Mary finished her tea and silently accepted another cup, watching Mrs. McCutcheon add precisely the same amount of milk and sugar.

"Do have more, Miss Morstan," said Mrs. McCutcheon, helpfully loading another plate with two slices of cake, one each of Madeira and a dark loaf scented with cinnamon and clove and allspice, studded with shiny little jewels of dark fruit. Then she split a scone and spread it with butter and marmalade, added that as well before offering it to Mary, who took it with only slight hesitation.

Captain Watson was tucking in quite happily to the sandwiches and seemingly had taken no notice of the crumbs on Mary's first plate, which she quickly hid underneath the second. Funny how quickly her stomach had adjusted from being on the road. In fact it was quite amazing they had even made it this far in the thing, considering the weather. As if on cue the the windows rattled and then moaned, leaving the fire to dance like a mad thing in the draft down the chimney.

"How's business been?" asked Captain Watson, busily spreading his own scone with butter.

Mrs. McCutcheon shrugged. "About what you'd expect, given what's going on in Delhi and Simla."

"Are you going to shut for the season?"

"I don't know. Davey hasn't sent word of what he wants to do, and I while I don't think we'd be in any danger - "

Captain Watson shook his head. "No. Don't think like that, Alice. You keep your ear to the ground."

Mrs. McCutcheon put her elbows on the table rather gracelessly to hold her cup in front of her face using both hands. "Mm, you know I always do."

"Well, just make sure you don't hesitate once you come to a decision, all right?"

Mary glanced down at her second plate and was horrified to see that somehow she had managed to eat everything on it. She would enjoy her tea, at least, instead of inhaling it as she had done with her food. She looked out the window and watched the clouds scud across the sky. In the valley below, the gusty blasts blew patterns in the nap of the short, winter-tan grass, as if it were combing velvet first one way, then another. The snowy caps of the mountains ringing the valley were even more majestic seen here than in Palampur, where the forests of pine, cedar, and oak could obscure the view so easily. Unlike there, however, there were no rushing rivers visible, no thundering gorges during the rainy season - did they even get the monsoon up here? If she remembered, she would try and ask Mrs. McCutcheon on the morrow.

"Well, I'll leave the two of you to it," said Mrs. McCutcheon, smiling at Mary. But her smile grew stiff when she glanced at Captain Watson, and his was equally strained. "Miss Morstan, please do let me know if there is anything at all that I can help you with. Simply let Reception know, day or night."

Captain Watson looked at his plate and grimaced.

"Thank you," said Mary. There was some understanding between Mrs. McCutcheon and Captain Watson, something that clearly displeased both of them - May hoped it had nothing to do with her. Mrs. McCutcheon had been nothing but polite, however, so maybe she was just misreading things.

When Captain Watson was done eating, he invited her to take a short walk around the hotel to show her the sights. The weather here was as changeable as it was in Palampur, and though clouds were still being driven across the sky, there was a great deal more of sunshine in the mix, now, too. The view of the valley was stunning no matter where one looked, inside or out. The air, though cold, was heavy and sweet with moisture and something else, not straw nor cedar bark nor pine - a mix of all, plus the scent of snow. All too soon Mary was shivering, and Captain Watson brought her back inside to warm up next to the fire.

Many of the gentleman were still there in that open parlour, reading the paper and discussing the day's news. Though none of them appeared to even look up as she passed them in favour of sitting directly next to the fireplace on an overstuffed chair, Mary could sense them picking her apart. No doubt they were judging Captain Watson on the depth of colour in her skin, and the finish of her clothing. Mary folded her hands in her lap and sat demurely, half-listening to the low murmur of conversation around her.

"Warm enough?"

Mary jerked her eyes open, shocked she had actually fallen into a light doze. Captain Watson was looking at her fondly, and she realized that yes, she was finally warm.

"Shall we freshen up before dinner?"

A good idea, even though she had nothing to change into. That probably didn't matter so much, here. Mary didn't think she would be hungry after such a large lunch, but as it turned out, she was able to manage a bowl of spicy mutton stew in the Southern Indian fashion, which meant it was hot with pepper, hot enough to make her face heat.

After, they stopped at the door to her room.

Captain Watson said, "I can say goodnight here."

He took both of her hands in his own, not tightly, not squeezing so hard that she could feel the bones move. He did nothing save rub his thumbs over her palms. Thee were other factors she considered and discarded almost immediately. They were not yet married. She was already used goods merely by staying in McCutcheon's without a member of her family. She had already blackened her name with them, and would never ever live at The Cedars again. Though Captain Watson had repeatedly said he would be fine no matter what happened, she continued to feel responsible for his decision. In a strange way, it seemed the least she could do was give herself t him. After all, she was already ruined in the eyes of the great and the good. Besides, the other thing, as Mrs. McCutcheon was sweeping out of the dining room;

I am no brute. He had said under his breath. Not unless you want me to be.

Was utterly tantalizing. Mary found she was even more curious to know, now, how it was between men and women. All the books she had read had done nothing more than hint, and now, now she wanted to know. To experience it for herself. The fact that he had taken a room for himself - well, it only proved what a true gentleman he was, did it not? For what man, given the opportunity, would not press his advantage?

Without looking him in the eye, Mary put her hand on the handle and opened the door.

"All right," she said, leaving the door open as she blindly went through. The room was relatively plain, though to the right the bed was large and looked comfortable. A window was directly opposite, next to it an armoire, and to the right, the fireplace, flanked by two upholstered chairs. Immediately on the left was a dresser, topped with lacework. Her bag was at the foot of the bed, unopened.

"I'll be back in a moment."

Mary nodded without looking back at him. This was it. She was going to do this, and her life would never ever be the same after. Quickly undressing, she used the pot, then washed with the fresh water from the ewer. She dried herself, then slipped on her nightgown, sat on the bed and waited. Her heart was pounding and she felt a bit faint. She clasped her hands together and stared at them against the lace of her nightgown. They almost didn't look like they belonged to her. Her skin was not the milk pale of Sophronia or Flora, of Miss Davis or even Vanessa Parker. She didn't need to look in the mirror to know that her hair was not the color of ripe wheat, to see that she was wide-hipped, her breasts heavy like ripe mangoes. Her eyes were black, her hair sable. She looked like what she was - a mix of races.

The door closed behind her and she hear John - her almost-husband - come into the room, medals a-jingle in his hands as he removed them from his dress uniform. Mary tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind beyond her own terror at what was going to happen next. He was going to - they were going to -

"Are you all right?"

She nodded jerkily, tried to smile even though he could not see it from behind her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him round the end of the bed to come stand in front of her. She licked her lips and swallowed hard. Was he going to be rough with her? He hadn't been rough thus far, but now that he had her at his will -

"Mary," John abruptly crouched down. He grasped her hands in his own, squeezed a little. "It's going to be fine. "

"You've done this before?" she gasped.

"Gotten married? No - "

He was joking, of course. Right?

"You're a soldier, John. You're...experienced in these things," Which sounded terribly crude when she said it aloud.

"Ah, yes, plenty in matters of love, but, um, not in this particular thing, no. Which is to say I've never been with a woman for her first time." he said. He stood, drawing her up as well. Leaning forward, he kissed her cheek, brushed his lips against her ear and the side of her throat before returning to her ear.

The kisses reassured her, as did his words. She was no fool. She had been in enough temples, had seen enough statuary, had read enough poetry to understand what the matter was between men and women, if not necessarily the details. The advice given to her had been nebulous as best, mostly consisting of delicate looks behind fluttering fans, and concerned non-conversations about what to expect on the wedding night. Those tended along the lines of 'He loves you' and 'His baser nature will show' and 'This is what the gentle sex was created for', none of which were what she needed to know.

Now she was about to find out.

John started began to unbutton his shirt

"Does that shock you?" he asked, pulling his shirt out of his trousers.

She shook her head. "No. You're a man of the world. I'm sure there have been many other women before me."

He looked at her then with slightly creased brows. "And there won't be any others after you."

Mary wanted to believe him, she did. But she had seen plenty of men flirting with women who were not their wives, and actively knew of several who had more than one family, one English, one Indian. Was not her very grandfather the example?

"Do you think me the kind of man to play away?"

Again, she shook her head. He was removing his braces, and his shirt hung loose about him in a way that was oddly attractive. As if he was baring himself to her instead of the reverse.

"I like the way you're looking at me."

Mary blinked.

John grinned. "Yeah, just like that. Now," he said, coming forward and cupping her cheeks in his hands, his warm, warm hands. He kissed her lightly, the way he always did, before licking the seam of her lips for entry.

It was familiar, and exciting, because they were not going to stop this time. Mary clutched his shirt in both hands, overwhelmed by the scent of him, the thin layer of clothing between the two of them. He moved his hands to her hair, plucking at it, which was when she realized she had completely forgotten to remove the pins. She pulled away nervously. "Sorry, sorry."

"Let me," said John, spinning her around in place. "When I was little, I used to love doing this for my sister. Of course hair wasn't as fancy then as it is now."

Fancy?? Oh, he was teasing her! Within seconds her hair was tumbling down her back - it was not as long as she wanted it to be. Through some quirk it was in fact neither as long as it should have been, nor as straight.

"Beautiful," murmured John. A moment later he was in front of her again, this time sitting on the bed while she stood. He took her by the hips and moved in between his spread legs, began to kiss her as if he'd never kissed her before.

Mary lost herself in his touch. It was still strange, to be like this with him, but he was oh so gentle, though she could tell he was also eager. He petted her sides, stroked up and down from her hip and back up to her shoulders, then down again. His touch made her skin burn, made that queer tingle she felt at odd occasions start between her legs. Eventually he scooted back on the bed backwards, lying down and holding his arms out for her. Naturally, she followed, though she wasn't sure what she was doing or what he wanted, exactly. He encouraged her to lay atop him, and they kissed, kissed, kissed, his hands weaving through her hair, stroking down her spine, curving around her arse, his interest hard against her belly.

Eventually John pushed her away and sat up to strip off his shirt. He paused for a few seconds, then stood and unbuttoned his trousers, pushing them down his legs until he was standing in only his smalls.

Though Mary had seen half-naked men before, and of course sadhus roamed the streets and roads at will, coated with ash or paint, having a man before her like this was a different matter altogether. John was muscular and well-formed, like the Italian statues she had seen in books. He was golden in color, with a slight, dark trail of hair leading from his belly button down into his smalls.

And at the junction of his thighs was a bulge. As she watched, it moved, growing bigger. She bit her lip and John made the tiniest noise, barely a whisper of a sound, just enough to set her heart racing, though whether in fear or anticipation she had no idea. He finished stripping and when he stood straight again, his prick was reaching for her, pulsing ever so slightly.

"Take off your dress," John commanded, looking at her like a lion chasing down their prey.

Trembling, Mary got to her feet and grasped her gown at her upper thighs, slowly drew it up, uncovering her knees, her thighs, her hips. She closed her eyes, growing a little lightheaded as she raised the gown up and up and up over her head.

She found she could not let it go. She gripped it tightly with one hand, letting it drag onto the floor. Now he was seeing her too, as naked as Eve.

He nodded at the bed. "On your back."

Shaking, feeling hot and cold at the same time, she did as she was bid, lying down properly this time, instead of crosswise. The pillow was soft underneath her head - goose down, she thought hysterically. Keeping her hands at her sides was difficult; she wanted to cover herself, but this was her husband, he would take what he wanted, whenever he wanted, and if she made sure she was willing now, perhaps he wouldn't be beastly with her later on.

John crawled on top of her on all fours, their bodies not touching apart from their knees. She glanced down - babies came out from between women's legs, so his cock would surely fit?

"You're bloody gorgeous and you don't even know it, do you," he said, shaking his head as he looked at her chest. "I'm the luckiest man alive, I think."

He dipped forward and kissed her on the mouth, before moving to her next favorite place, the side of her neck. He surprised her, then, by fondling one breast, and then the other, pinching her nipples, rubbing them with his thumbs, pulling on them until she couldn't contain her whimpers any more. He stopped and moved down, mouthing her breasts, sucking on them. Which felt all right. It was nothing special, but he seemed to enjoy it, judging by the sounds he made. Abruptly, he raised himself up to whisper into her ear, "I'm going to make you feel so good."

Eventually he tired of this (thank G-d), and continued down her body until his face was equal with her mons Venus.

Oh G-d.

She hoped she was clean enough. She hoped she didn't smell strange. "John?" she asked tremulously. John rubbed his cheek against the hair there, glanced up at her, one corner of his mouth curling up.

Then he parted her with his thumbs, and put his mouth against her.

At the first touch of his tongue, Mary fought to keep from leaping off the bed. She lay there, wondering if she should stop him. The feeling was soft yet cool, like wet velvet. He close his mouth around her and hummed, which was not unpleasant. This...no one had mentioned anything like this happening on the wedding night. Perhaps it was something so dirty and wrong no one wanted to bring up the subject?

It was wrong, it had to be wrong, this couldn't be natural! It was an odd, but by no means unpleasant sensation. She didn't know what he was doing, but it felt good - it felt better than good. The sound was...wet. G-d, how embarrassing! She hoped she hadn't weed herself, yet she didn't feel that she had. And surely John would have stopped and told her so? He was a doctor, he understood how things worked. John did something and her breath caught in her throat. He did it again and she tightened her muscles in an effort to keep still. He hummed again and she gasped, the sensation between her legs making her insides quiver. A moment later he stopped.

"It's all right, you can move if you want to, make all the noise you want. I want to hear you."

Mary swallowed and stared at the bed's canopy. What he was doing must be fine, then. Maybe not all men did this to their wives. John shifted and ran one hand up her stomach to pinch her nipple. Her own cry shocked her, but she couldn't help it, it was as if the finest prick of the needle lanced her from breast to cunny, the sweetest feeling in the whole entire world.

"That's it," muttered John, before he went back to his task.

Mary gave herself over to what she was feeling, then. If John said it was all right, if this was what he wanted to do, then she could only follow his lead.

Mary closed her to eyes, the better to concentrate. With his hands on her backside, John urged her to let her hips roll. She gripped the sheets as the feeling built inside of her. She imagined it like waves coming on to the shore, closer, closer, closer until she broke with a might splash, jerking hard as pure pleasure washed over her and left her half drowned. It was over both too soon and not soon enough.

John crawled back up to lie half on her, one leg between her own. "Good?"

"Mm," was all she could say, stunned by what had happened. He leaned down to kiss her, the smell on his face familiar - oh. Oh! He smelled like both of them, her own scent rich and lovely layered on top of his own musk.

"Tell me you liked it. Tell me you want me to do it again," he said, stroking her wherever he could reach.

"I liked it," she said shyly, almost unable to look him in the eye as she spoke. Because she did. Couldn't wait, in fact, to feel like that again. "And I want to do it again."

He immediately put his hand between her legs and started to touch her. "Good. I want you to look into my eyes and tell me what it feels like."

Tell him?? "I - I don't know the words," she gasped, staring at him in alarm. He was smiling, though. "It's not funny!"

"I'm not laughing at you, Mary. I'm loving that I get to be the one to make you feel like this. That's my privilege."

Mary rolled her head from side to side, felt sweat break out on her forehead. "John - "

"Yeah?"

"Don't stop - "

"Wasn't planning on it. In fact, I'm going to put my fingers inside you."

And he did.


	5. Chapter 5

~*~

 

"All right?"

Mary nodded. She found she wasn't too anxious about what was going to happen next. She was relaxed and a bit tired, but happy. She wanted to know what he was going to feel like inside of her. Spreading her legs more while he positioned himself, she was ready for his kiss when he dipped down.

"I've been told this can be very painful," he said against her lips. "I'll stop if you want me to. Some women I've been with said it didn't hurt at all."

Now that she knew he wasn't going to be a brute unless she asked, Mary was sure she wasn't going to stop him from doing anything he wanted. She looked down as he took himself in hand, watched as he pressed forward.

It was an odd sensation at first. Strange to feel something intruding her body and oh, oh, there was no way he could fit, oh, oh no! Mary curled her toes and desperately tried not to wince, but it did hurt. It hurt a lot, as if a bone was being bent into two, but it was no bone, and then he was in and seated against her.

He didn't move.

Mary couldn't help but hold her breath until she had to release it. The pain was bearable, though.

"Sorry," said John, grimacing.

The reason for his apology came clear a moment later, when he started to thrust.

The pain died down a bit, and though there was some pleasure, it was clear that the bliss of earlier was not going to return. That was all right. Fair was fair. Mary felt that John had waited more than long enough, and so she contented herself with watching his expression as he worked himself upon her body. His breath was hot against her face when he kissed her, though it was awkward as he held himself up on his hands. For her part, she felt the strength of his arms as she touched him, how the muscles flexed the faster he moved.

It didn't take long for him to stiffen and hold himself still, and then he collapsed on her. She patted him on the shoulder and wondered if that was it. The big mystery. So much written in word, so much preached against it in church, and all for this? It had been very enjoyable, yes, but hardly the collapse of morals the vicar constantly warned against.

John rolled off of her with a groan, unwittingly setting off a little spark of pleasure as he withdrew. "Sorry," he said, holding the back of his hand against his forehead. He looked at her, smiled tiredly. "I hope that wasn't too bad for you. I could tell it hurt."

Mary shrugged, ignoring the ring of fire between her legs. "Maybe it'll be better next time."

"It will be, I promise."

She smiled back at him, and said hopefully, "I liked it, what you did before. When can we do that again?"

He stared at her in disbelief, then looked up at the canopy and chuckled. "You're going to be the death of me, I can tell."

Mary immediately wished she hadn't said anything.

At the look on her face, he grinned, then said through a yawn, "That's a good thing. The best way for a soldier to go, in the arms of a beautiful woman."

A few moments later he was asleep. Mary lay still until she was sure he was not going to wake, then carefully felt between her legs. There was no difference that she could tell, and when she looked at her fingers, there was no blood upon them. Surely there should be blood? She had overheard a conversation or two between newly married young women, and blood had been a common theme. Perhaps she was still a virgin? It hardly seemed possible. She was slippery, though, and not with her own familiar juices. Wiping her hand on the sheet, she snuggled back under the covers, wide-awake. A moment later she realized she had to use the pot again, and did so, cleaning herself just as carefully after, for if John was going to use his mouth again, she wanted to be tidy.

Crawling back in bed, she cursed herself for leaving the lamp on, debated blowing it out, and ultimately left it on in case John wanted to see her again. Which was a strange thought, he had already seen what she had to offer. He had certainly been appreciative. She smile and rolled on to her side to stare at his back. Yes, she decided. She had made the right decision. No matter what was to come, at least she would have this night to savour.

Mary woke from her fitful sleep not knowing where she was, or who lay in the bed next to her. She held herself still, not breathing, wide awake in the pitch darkness. She was naked underneath the heavy blankets, and hot. No, it was hot over the covers, too - oh, oh! That's right, she was a fallen woman now. An experienced woman, in a bed with a man who had yet to make his promise good. The air was close because he had drawn the curtains after she had used the pot. And she had used the pot because of what they had done...she was a little sore. A little achey, not like before. Perhaps that was going to be the worst of it? If not, she wasn't sure she could face a lifetime of pain every time he came to her bed.

Mary bit her lip at the thought. But John had made sure she had had her pleasure, too, and he was a doctor, so surely he would know how to make it hurt less? He shifted and slid one arm across her belly, snuggled in close. It was so strange, being in bed with another person, a man. She had shared a bed before, with Grandmother's two legitimate granddaughters, Poonam and Vimla. Of course they had all been younger then. Innocent. Finally she had to suck in a breath, afraid of waking John, afraid of him seeing how scared she was of the future.

"Alright?"

Mary started at the sound of his voice, quiet though it was. "Yes," she lied.

"Mm. G-d, it's bloody hot in here," He shifted, jammed his knuckles into her side, whispered an apology as he reached over her and opened the curtain. "That's better."

Mary held the blanket close to her neck, even though he knew what she looked like. Even though he was sharing the blanket with her. Still, she was unprepared when he dropped down on top of her. The lamp on the dresser was still burning, barely, and with her dark-adjusted eyes she could just make out his outline.

"Hello," he murmured, brushing her hair away from her face.

"It's dark," she said inanely. Was he going to want to sleep with her again? Was he going to want to do it again? Of course he was, what a ridiculous thing to think. Yes...she could feel him twitching against her thigh.

"A bit easier in the dark, don't you think?"

He kissed her. He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her until she was as pliable in his hands as silk. Mary found herself restless, tingling everywhere he touched her , which he wouldn't stop doing. Mary wanted him to lick her again, but didn't know if she should ask, if that was the right thing to do. She didn't even know if she ought to touch him back. She would never find out if she didn't try, however, and tentatively put her hands on his shoulders. He hummed and rocked against her hip. Encouraged, she ran her hands down his back, along the top of his arse, which was slightly furred. His skin was smooth and warm and she wanted to feel that slam of pleasure again.

Even so, at the first touch of him between her legs, though she expected the pain when he pushed forward, it was much less and disappeared almost entirely as he settled atop her. Now that the worst of it was over, she began to feel little sparks of pleasure as he moved. For a slight-looking man he was muscular and hot and heavy and he felt good, g-d he did. He swept her side from armpit to knee, pulling her leg up and pushing it to the side, opening her up even more. As before, she couldn't help but rock her hips as much as she could, but it soon became clear that she wasn't going to attain any kind of crescendo. Maybe he sensed it too, for after a short amount of time he sat back on his heels, pulling her hips forward on to his lap.

Mary hoped that maybe after he was finished he would use his hands or maybe his mouth on her, as he had done earlier. Of course, maybe this was all she was going to get? She would do her duty as his wife, regardless - a thought that gave her a pang of sorrow.

Well.

Things could always get worse.

With this in mind, her previous ardor fading, Mary tightened her grip on John's shoulders and held him tight while he panted hot against her neck. Yes, she could live with that, if that was what happened. It was a depressing future to contemplate, yet surely the rest of their lives would be wonderful? Before she had a chance to think on it further, John groaned and stopped. Mary wasn't sure what to do. Was he done? It didn't seem like he was done, he was still hard inside of her. Blinking wide, she waited for a kiss, then felt increasingly stupid as nothing happened. Finally John pulled out and rolled to one side, leaving her free to take one deep breath, and another. Her hips ached from the stretch and she gladly straightened them.

"Ride me," he said, his voice cracking.

Mary blinked. "What?"

"Ride me, like you would a horse."

"Sidesaddle?"

There was a short silence, in which Mary both realized what she had said and what he had meant, and then she tried and failed to stifle her bark of laughter.

"Not exactly," he replied, but she could hear the smile as he said it. "Come on, I think you'll like it better this way."

She felt incredibly foolish getting to her knees, then moving astride him, his prick brushing her as she moved into position. It was a little awkward at first, but she sank down on him easily, listening hard for cues as to what he wanted. He took her by the hips and urged her to slide forward and back - "Oh!"

Oh, that was...good.

"Lean forward, like that - yeah - "

Mary first tried to balance with her hands above his shoulders, but the stretch was too much and she had to put her hands on his chest instead.

"That's it, I told you I want to hear you," gasped John, cupping her breasts and scratching lightly at her nipples.

Caught up in her own pleasure, Mary completely forgot about John. Spreading her legs wider for better contact against him, she rocked back and forth, perspiring freely, her hair coming loose and sticking to her face, her back. John fisted a handful of her hair and brought her down to kiss, though she couldn't do anything except pant into his mouth. She couldn't have stopped the loud sounds coming from her own mouth if she tried. They reverberated around the room, and the more she heard herself, the louder she became until she was overtaken by a paroxysm of bliss that momentarily silenced her. She collapsed against him, abruptly exhausted.

"Good?"

Mary nodded, utterly boneless. She couldn't have moved if the room was on fire, quite frankly. John wrapped his arms around her waist and stabbed up with his hips to reach his own peak, which came quite quickly. He groaned in her ear and went equally boneless. Mary clambered off of him, abruptly weary and wanting nothing more than to sleep.

John pulled the covers over them both before rolling to his side, facing her. "Better?"

She nodded. "Mm, yes, much."

"Good. I'm glad."

She was, too. Closing her eyes, she briefly pondered the events of the day. She had done it - chosen for herself! For now, it was enough.

Mary woke fully when the bed shifted. She blinked rapidly in the dim light coming from the behind the shutters; it was past dawn. John was getting dressed, his back to her as he drew his trousers up. Through slitted eyes she watched him stomp into his boots, then gather his things and slip out of the room. Her heart sank even as waves of heat, then chills, set upon her. So this was it. She had made the wrong choice and was doomed to a life of...she was ruined! She chuckled mercilessly, a tear rolling down her cheek in her panic. Oh, he had gotten what he wanted and she had lived up to the stereotype; a wanton woman, just another loose chee-chee girl.

Rolling onto her side, she curled up into a ball and stifled the sobs that wanted to burst from her throat with a fist in her mouth. There was no use crying, now, what was done was done. At least she knew there could be pleasure in the moment, though now it had turned bittersweet. She had to formulate a plan. There was enough money sewn into her hemline to get her to Delhi, Lahore, Bombay. She didn't want to remain where people knew her, where people would seek her out to laugh at her misfortune. The joke being her error in judgement, of course. There was also Vasco de Gama, or Panjim...perhaps that would be the best place for her. They were used to half-castes there, she could be mostly anonymous. Maybe she would find a patron. How grateful she was now, to have read so many books in Uncle Frederick's library. She could always become a nanny, yes, that would be good.

Feeling calmer, Mary sat up and took a few deep breaths. It was time to prepare for the day. She would wash, first, then get dressed. She would ring for tea...yes, tea, and have the cook prepare her a sandwich or two before hiring a cart to take her to Dharamsala. From there she would figure out transport to the nearest city. She would read the papers and notices and if she were very, very, very lucky, she could answer an ad or two and find a placement somewhere far from Simla. In fact, perhaps she should be looking at the southern end of the country, Kerala or Tamil Nadu! Maybe she should take Philip's advice and head straight for Cochin, surely they would be sued to her type, too, and it would be easy to get work abroad, the West Indies or some such.

Grief and fear threatened to overtake her, so she drew back the covers in the hope that making a decision would change everything. Before she could even swing her legs over the bed, the door suddenly opened Captain Watson - John - her almost-husband came through. He caught sight of her and smiled.

"Good morning."

Surprised, she clutched the cover to her bare chest, realizing only a moment later that she was naked underneath.

He closed the door and came over and sat on the bed, kissed her on the cheek. "All right?"

"I...I thought you'd gone," she murmured, desperately wanting to tuck the covers around her hips and not feeling that she could. What if he wanted to touch her here and now? He had every right to do so.

"Just to wash up and change. I've told Mrs. McCutcheon to get the water on for you. It should be up shortly, or you can wait in my room if you're feeling..." he stopped, still smiling, but frowning a little too, as if he didn't quite know what to say, or how to say it.

It occurred to her that perhaps he was nervous, as well. Hadn't he said she was the first woman - the first virgin - he had ever been with? Oddly, that made her feel better. Just because he was a doctor, that didn't mean he had all the answers, such as how a woman might feel after her first time. "I'm fine," she said, allowing herself a little smile.

"Excellent. I was..."

Mary had to pat his hand in reassurance.

He flipped his hand over and gripped hers tightly. As during the night before, he rubbed his thumb over her fingers. "So, after your bath, what shall do? We could take a walk, up the road or down. The weather is less than miserable today. Or we could...stay here..."

He wasn't looking at her as he spoke. Instead, he was trailing two fingers from his free hand up and down the outside of her thigh, just down from where the blanket didn't cover. When he finished speaking, he glanced up - Mary was taken aback by his gaze. He wanted her. Still. She felt her cheeks heat and was unable to think of what to say. Yes? No?

Her indecision must have been obvious, for he chuckled and said, "No, no, luncheon first. Ah, a knock on the door, what good timing. I'll leave you to bathe and dress. When you're ready, I'm one door down and across."

Mary nodded and took the opportunity to tuck the blanket around herself while he drew the bed curtains. She sat still while he let the porters in, sat still while water was poured into a basin, sat still until he...John...said his goodbye and closed the door behind himself, leaving her alone. After a moment, she practically leapt out of bed to scramble to the door to shoot the bolt, falling against the door a second later. Across from her was a giant copper bath, handles on either end to make it suitable for carrying. Steam rose from the water within and, after getting a bar of rose soap from her bag, she happily immersed herself fully, from hair to toes.

Some time later, wearing her dark, olive green dress and her sturdy boots, fresh from a walk around the hotel, her arm tucked underneath John's, Mary was hyper-aware of the stares of all the gentleman seated by the fireplace. She did not glance in their direction, preferring to keep her eyes downcast. Their steady, appraising gazes that swept her from head to toe made her uneasy in a way she understood only too well. Though she hoped to go directly to the dining room, John brought her to the open parlour instead. He gamely steered her to a seat close by the fire, but she still had to walk through th gentlemen in close quarters, her skirt brushing the toes of their boots as if it was a direct invitation. Oh, she hated it, hated it, hated them!

No one had ever looked at her like that before, not en masse. Well, not since that night with Sophronia, when Captain Watson had rescued them both from all of those soldiers. She primly clasped her hands together in her lap once she was seated, angling herself towards John as he leaned against the mantle on one elbow. A log in the fire shifted, sending a shower of sparks onto the tile and subsequently her skirt. Someone barked a laugh when she twitched her skirt away. It was only her best good wool, suitable for bad weather but that still didn't mean she wanted pinprick burns on it.

"Back in a moment," John said, touching her arm briefly before heading to the front desk to speak to the man at the desk. Momentarily left to herself, Mary ignored the gentlemen reading their books and papers to warm herself by the fire. Staring into its depths, she wasn't sure her face was heating from the flames or from her memories of the night before. She had done it, now. Caution to the wind and all that. She had made sure she was free from any hold the Glendennings could possibly have over her. Of course, she had also freed herself from any money she might hve gotten from her father's estate, but that was the way of the world, wasn't it? A woman had to make a go of it as best she could.

"Excuse me - "

Mary started at the voice, speaking so closely to her, and shied away from the man hovering at her shoulder. He was tall, mustachioed, and reeked of pipe tobacco. What was even more odd was his dress; she had seen the magazines from Woolwich's, he could have walked straight from London in his wool suit, gold chain from his watch fob glinting in the firelight.

"I say, are you available tonight?"

It took a moment for Mary to recognize what the words meant, and then another for her face to flame from the shock of them. She was no randii to be bought for an evening's entertainment! She refused to meet his gaze, resolutely staring at the fire and feeling light-headed.

"I asked you a question."

"I don't know what you want me to say, sir," she managed to say, though not very loudly.

He chuckled jovially. "Just tell me your price, or do I need to ask that gentleman over there? I daresay he won't be pleased to find you ignoring me when there's money between your legs."

Mary flushed even harder and staggered to her feet. A quick glance at him proved he was handsome, the kind of pretty that would have had all the girls in Palampur falling at his feet, but the look in his eyes...he lacked something, a fundamental something that scared her outright. "Excuse me."

Unfortunately she had to step towards him to leave, which meant he could easily block her way. Which he did.

"Come on, beauty, don't play so hard to get. I can tell you want it."

Everything went blurry as tears came unbidden to Mary, caught between this man and where she desperately wanted to be, which was anywhere else.

"Help you?"

John's overly cool voice was just the balm Mary needed. Relieved, she briefly closed her eyes and stood still, waited to see what John wanted her to do.

"Just wanted to know the price for this bit of black velv- "

There was a flurry of movement, then Mary was looking at the gentleman now lying on the floor, shaking his head while blood spurted out of his nose.

Shocked, she turned away from the man. "You hit him!"

"Yes," he said, his face like thunder. "It was the least he deserved."

"I'm sorry."

John looked askance at her. "Whatever for?"

"He could, he could say something...to somebody?"

"Only if he wanted to get himself into trouble," John shook his head, amused. "It's nothing, Mary. Just a fight between two men over a pretty woman, the oldest story in the book."

Hmm, maybe.

One of the servants helped the man up and was shoved away for his troubles. The man hobbled away down the hall, Mary feeling guilty for no reason at all, and John now quiet. The low murmur of conversation returned, but the atmosphere was charged. Mary didn't understand how John didn't feel it, or why he was making her stay in a place where she was clearly unwelcome. She kept her attention on the fire, on her hands, on how John was now silent. Was this what it was going to be like when they were in public? He hadn't seemed so...cold to her before - before. Things were obviously different now. Maybe she was only good enough to talk to in the bedroom. And maybe that's what he intended; to keep her in the bedroom, away from prying eyes, away from embarrassment. Out of sight, out of mind, as it were. So lost was she in her own terrible thoughts, that she was surprised when John nudged her foot with his own. Startled, she glanced up.

"Luncheon's ready."

Save for a very old gentleman with a cane, they were the last ones in the room. Yesterday's table was still available, and Mary was grateful to have something to look at apart from John.

"The menu here runs to the native," said John, watching her stir her yellow soup. "Once you've acquired a taste for it, it's delicious."

The soup smelled spicy and earthy and ever so slightly sour. There was bread, too, not the kind she was used to at table with Aunt Thomasine and Uncle Frederick, no, but the kind she had in the kitchen as a child. Nothing for it, this was her life, now. She tasted the soup, blinked in astonishment at the flavour.

"I hope it's not too spicy for you," said John, a little crease in his brow. "I can get you something else - "

"No! No," she answered. "You're right, it's delicious. Not as spicy as it smells."

Mary filled her belly. She tried to be delicate and lady-like about it, but the truth was that she was hungry, so hungry, and the food brought back dim memories of happy days when she was little, with a man who was constantly laughing and swinging her in the air. Contentment spread through her, burning its way through the stress of the day this far. Certainly Captain Watson - John - was pleased to see her eat, He kept putting tit-bits on her plate, urging her to try this and that far beyond that of which she was capable.

As her eating slowed, she began hearing little snippets of conversation from the men around her.

_" - loud cracker, isn't she?"_

_" - like the rest of them - "_

_" - Father Stone - "_

_" - iage, but I doubt it - "_

_" - loud -"_

_\- laughter -_

Mary set down her fork and folded her hands in her lap.

"Ignore them," John said, buttering a roll.

Mary shook her head a little.

She felt raw. Everyone knew what they did - what she had done.

"They heard me. Last night," she said lowly, not wanting anyone to overhear. A little late to be thinking of that now.

John didn't look up, busy cutting into his mutton. "So?"

Mary shook her head again. She didn't know how to make him understand. Total strangers had heard her in the depths of her pleasure.

"They don't know you, what do you care about what they think?"

She came to an abrupt realization. "You wanted them to hear. You wanted them to know!"

He had the grace to look embarrassed.

Mary didn't know whether or not she felt outraged or so ashamed as to want a hole to open beneath her feet.

"Yes, I wanted them to know," he growled, leaning over his plate, gravy dripping off his fork. "Because there is nothing better in all this world than the sound of a woman who can't control herself in matters sexual. To know she is experiencing such pleasure that she cannot help but cry aloud. It is your natural state, and damn anyone who says otherwise!"

But...but...why did everyone have to know! Another thought occurred to her. "You wanted them to know it was you!"

"Well, yes," he said, drawing back, his cheeks colouring. "That was rather a cherry on the cake. You have no idea what it's like, to be the one who makes a woman moan. Repeatedly."

Then it was her turn to blush and look down at her food.

"I'm a doctor, Mary. I know what is and isn't good for the human body. Allow me to be the judge of that, please."

"You're...you're saying it was a good thing?"

"A very good thing, for you and me."

She picked at her food for a little while longer, pondering his words. He had certainly been eager enough to hear her, the night before. And...though it was disconcerting, knowing people had heard her, maybe, maybe that was all right? If John thought it was a matter of health...? It had been exciting...

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Mary took a sip of water. "I don't know what to say. Is that why that man said what he said to me?"

John blinked at her, then shook his head. "No, no...I'm sure...perhaps. Does that bother you?"

"Shouldn't it?"

"No. Think of it this way, Mary. He wanted you to make those sounds again, and he wanted to be the one to do it. Offering you money, well, offering me money was just added incentive for you to say yes."

In a way that made sense. Mary decided not to look too closely at John's reasoning. If he wanted her to be loud, she would be loud, that was all there was to it. If that enhanced her own pleasure, surely that was, as he said, a good thing?

After lunch they went for another walk, spring warmth finally in the air,and when they returned, they packed for the trip to Cawnpore, where John was actually stationed.

"But, how, do they even know you're away?" sputtered Mary, holding Brandy's reins while John strapped his gear to the saddle.

"Major Sholto gave me compassionate leave. I may have told him the love of my life was in danger, so."

Oh.

The journey took two days, which John assured her was a little faster than normal. Two people on horseback would always be swifter than a palkee-gharry or, g-d forbid, a palankeen. Still, she was glad to arrive in Cawnpore at the end of the second day, just as dusk was falling.

John having been called away almost immediately upon their arrival in Cawnpore, Mary was left to her own devices concerning the arrangement of things in the bungalow John had obtained. In all honesty, apart from throwing away old and mold editions of Punch, there was little to redecorate. Yes, Mary could have completely redecorated, but what would be the point? They could live here for a month or two, and then move on to a different town or indeed, a different country all together. Why waste money on the ephemeral, was Mary's thought on the matter. Besides, just because there was an empty space, that didn't mean it had to be filled.

After a very lonely night in which she grew increasingly uncomfortable at the scrutiny of the servants while she ate her solitary dinner and breakfast, Mary decided to take to the streets of Cawnpore and see what was to be seen.

Cawnpore was larger than Simla and, of course, Palampur. Situated on the banks of the Ganges, which, depending on the direction of the breeze, made one either breathe deeply, or…not. It was a trading town with beautiful local architecture and very pretty public parks and gardens. Mary had never expected to travel beyond Palampur, and the glimpse of this wider world set her heart racing. Here, it seemed that no one particularly cared that she was Eurasian. Oh, she had no doubt that they did care, the difference was they didn't show it their disdain to her face.

Eventually Mary realized she had no chance of seeing all that Cawnpore had to offer in a single afternoon. Hot, hungry, and thirsty, she retraced her steps to the first English shop she had come across, and popped inside to enquire where the nearest tea shop was. She was promptly accosted by the manageress, a Mrs. Peabody, who upon discovering she was new to Cawnpore, invited her to the soiree she was holding the very next afternoon.

Mary gratefully accepted, and was even more happy to discover John in the parlour when she returned to the bungalow.

"Look at you," he said, pulling her onto his lap. "Making friends already."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Hardly. I'm sure you would introduce me to many fine ladies and gentlemen if you had the time."

He reproachfully shook her a little bit. "I'll make the time. I'll not have it said I couldn't afford to spend time with my gorgeous wife."

She had to give him a peck on the cheek for that, which turned into a long, lengthy kiss and fumble before he pushed her off his lap somewhat unceremoniously.

John popped up from the sofa, his face bright red, tugging his jacket down. "Sorry," he muttered, stepping towards the hallway. "Someone at the door."

Wide-eyed, Mary watched him struggle with saying something else versus seeing to their guest. He swung back and forth for a long moment, opening and shutting his mouth before finally heading out of the room. A second later she chuckled to herself, because honestly, he was always so self-assured it was rather funny to see him flustered. Voices came from the hallway, but John did not come back. Work, then, probably of the doctorly kind, she assumed. Well, that was fine, that would leave her plenty of time for another luxurious bath.

The next day, which was quite warm, Mary wore the cream colored dress with the elephants embroidered on the hems for tea with Mrs. Peabody. It was somewhat plain and serviceable, but not too fancy for a first meeting with people she didn't know. "Never outdress your host! had been Aunt Thomasine's saying, and Mary saw no reason not to abide by it. Of course, as soon as she and John arrived at Mrs. Peabody's, she realized she had made a tremendous mistake.

"Oh dear," said Mary, pausing at the gate leading to the ouse. She re-read the card Mrs. Peabody had given to her, looked up again. "Perhaps she works here?"

John rubbed her hand. "Come on. Let's see what's the what."

'What the what' happened to be servants and a grand house that belied the somewhat drab little shop Mrs. Peabody managed. Owned, in fact, a gift from her husband, Major Percival Peabody, an old-style nabob whose wife was thirty years his junior. John, of course, knew several of the gentlemen in attendance, but still took care to stay with Mary, which pleased her. It would have been so easy for him to simply leave her to find her own entertainment, and as a new girl in a new town, it was nothing she looked forward to.

They ended up in the extensive private garden, which was filled with mature oaks and well shaped banks of rhododendrons and box hedges, a small maze of the same, a lovely water garden in the Mughal style, surrounding a tiny pavilion suitable for a small, intimate party. Mary was very impressed, given that the house was in the Western style, and the garden that of the East. Whoever had created them had been able to use the most harmonious elements of each. It was quite outstanding, actually.

"What a beautiful garden," she mused, taking John's arm.

"It is, isn't it? I wonder what's over here."

John cornered her in the rhododendron bank, pushing her against the branches. At first she was confused, then batted at him when he began to pull up her skirt.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, scared that someone might see. He was not paying any attention to her, peering over her shoulder instead. "John!"

He looked at her then, so handsome in his uniform - his red uniform which could so easily be seen, even at dusk. His teeth gleamed when he smiled. "You're fine. No one can see."

"We're in public!" she protested, once more trying to push him away, though not very hard, for what he had said earlier was in the back of her mind.

John didn't respond, continuing to bunch her skirt up around her waist. "Hold it."

Mary swallowed, because she had to admit to herself that she was now a good deal cooler from the waist down. She felt very naughty, so exposed with her pantalettes and stockings and slippers showing. He pressed her further against the bushes, insinuating his hand between her thighs and through the gap in the pantalettes.

"Do you remember, that first night at Mrs. McCutcheon's?" he murmured into her ear. His voice was soft, his breath warm against her skin.

"Yes, John," she answered, already breathless at his touch.

"And you so worried you had been heard by everyone there?"

Mary closed her eyes, feeling ashamed at being ashamed for what her own husband had asked her to do. He had every right to hear her, every right to ask of her things he would ask of no one else, at least not any more. She hoped. She was determined to give him anything he wanted, for had he not rescued her from her situation, and made her life infinitely better? Was she not his HINDI MYTH HERE Parvati to his Krsna?

"Now you are, being fingered in view of anyone who might come around the corner, crying out your pleasure while they watch, shaking like a leaf in a monsoon."

"Oh my g-d - "

"Mm, I think you like that idea,"

The very idea of it had Mary riding John's hand without a thought, terribly excited and desperate to get off. Never mind the branches poking into her back, or the tickle of some insect against her neck.

"Be quiet, or they'll hear you - " John whispered, driving his shoulder against her own as he worked her.

For her part, Mary clutched her skirt with both hands, aware she was wrinkling the fabric and not caring one whit. John changed his movement and she whimpered when she wanted to howl, held her breath when she wanted to scream, stood when she wanted to collapse and pull John on top of her so they could couple right then and there.

"Here comes Major Peabody, his wife is with him, what will they say when they see you here, so wanton you're willing to bare it all in the garden, hmm?"

She could just imagine the horror on Mrs. Peabody's face, how she would gasp and turn her face to Major Peabody's shoulder, while the Major himself would look upon Mary like a wolf upon a lamb. Oh, how he would want her for his own, how he would take her, John would hold her down -

"That's it - " said John quietly, excitement plain to hear. "Hello, Major!"

John stepped away from Mary, leaving her with trembling legs and perspiration on her brow. Mary hurriedly turned to face away from the Major, for there was no way for her to not be seen. She hastily dropped her skirt and smoothed it down, then quickly pressed her wrist to her brow and cheeks in an attempt to stem the perspiration.

"Mrs. Watson," called Mrs. Peabody. "Are you quite well?"

"Yes, thank you," said Mary, voice cracking in her dry throat. She turned to face the couple, and John, who had his hands behind his back and was beaming at her. "If you don't mind, I'm feeling a little faint, pray excuse me."

"Do let me come with you and make sure you're all right," said Mrs. Peabody, reaching out to take Mary's arm. She put it under her own, patting the back of Mary's hand reassuringly. "I know the heat can simply do a woman in, if she's not used it."

"Oh," replied Mary, glancing over Mrs. Peabody's shoulder at John, who was bouncing slightly on his toes with his hands behind his back, brimming with suppressed mirth. "Um, yes."

"We'll catch up to you ladies later," called Major Peabody. "The good Captain and I have things to discuss."

Mrs. Peabody brought her into the house and forced her to take a chota peg with ice, despite Mary's sincere desire not to do so.

"If nothing else, it will help you sleep when you get home," Mrs. Peabody pressed the glass into Mary's hands. "Enjoy it while you can."

Mary managed a slight smile and took a sip, even though she hated the taste of the gin. Mrs. Peabody, born and raised in Delhi, probably knew best in this situation. Unfortunately, what Mary had learned about herself since meeting John, was that alcohol tended to...make her think about certain things. Private things that happened between man and wife and g-d, she was still on fire from what John had done in the garden, a flame the chota peg would only stoke. Just thinking about it now - Mary took a deep breath and another sip. It was fine, it was all fine. They would be home soon enough, and then she would show him exactly how she felt about his actions in the garden, oh yes, yes she would.

Because John liked it when she was on top. He liked it when she was just in her sleeveless muslin shift, the top buttons undone. Why, only last week, Mary had caught a glimpse of herself in the full length mirror and at first had been shocked, and then pleased as she finally saw what John had been seeing all along. The fabric was summer weigh muslin, and thus nearly sheer apart from the delicate white-on-white paisleys along the hemline, at neck and arm. The windows were unshuttered, so with light from in front and behind, Mary could see her own dark nipples and the triangle of hair between her legs, the curve of her waist, the sway of her breasts. She turned slightly, admired the slope of her bum, the proportion of her legs. Crowning it all, of course, her dark hair, which was fine and decidedly not completely straight, much to the consternation of all who had to deal with it. Yes, she had decided then and there, she might not be one of the great English beauties with their peaches and cream complexions, but neither did she swelter so much that she stained her clothing, nor did she become red-faced at the merest hint of sunlight. Besides, John liked her well enough.

He especially liked her in the bedroom.

And out of it.

Oh, he did like it when she rode him, dressed or no. He loved it when she sat on his lap in her shift, legs spread, weighing her breasts with his hands, driving her on with words that were sometimes utterly filthy, or the most beautiful poetry. He spoke in Latin, naming her bones and muscles and organs as he felt them with soft fingers. Sometimes he spoke in Urdu, or Hindi, which he had more than a passing inclination for, the words dripping from his lip like spring water for her parched soul.


	6. Chapter 6

Oh, he did like it when she rode him, dressed or no. He loved it when she sat on his lap in her shift, legs spread, weighing her breasts with his hands, driving her on with words that were sometimes utterly filthy, or the most beautiful poetry. He spoke in Latin, naming her bones and muscles and organs as he felt them with soft fingers. Sometimes he spoke in Urdu, or Hindi, which he had more than a passing inclination for, the words dripping from his lip like spring water for her parched soul.

Thus, when they returned from Mrs. Peabody's soiree, Mary sat astride John in her shift, sighing as he rubbed her nipples and rolled his hips underneath her, the buttons of his trousers half done, she bent down to kiss him lightly on the lips. He was oh-so-warm and slightly sweaty, his skin gleaming in the light of the candles trapped in their patterned metal cages. Mary ran her hands down his chest, listened to him rumble with pleasure. An idea came to mind and she began to slide down his legs, tugging his trousers down at the same time.

"Where are you going?" he murmured, kicking off his smalls, too.

"I want to try something?" she half-asked, because she didn't know if this was something women did and she was too nervous to ask him outright.

"Alright then, do continue on, Mrs. Watson."

"I shall, Mr. Watson," she answered, settling between his legs so she could get an eyeful. She had never seen the male organ up close and it was...odd looking. The head was dark purple, thick veins ran up and down the body and as she watched, clear fluid welled from the slit. Wrapping one hand around it, she was surprised by its warmth, how she could feel John's pulse. Experimentally she touched one finger to the drop of fluid and raising her hand, watched the fluid stretch until it broke. John made a sound and when she looked up, it was to find him on his elbows looking right back down at her, an intense frown on his face. His chest rose and fell rapidly, which is how she knew she was doing something right.

Another drop appeared and she decided to taste it. It was only fair, seeing that John put his mouth to her as often as he could manage. Which was frequent.

Mary stuck out her tongue and licked. It was smooth, unlike anything she had ever felt before. Finally she closed her mouth over the head. There was no discernible flavour apart from a slight acidity and saltiness, something a little metallic, her fear that she might swallow waste was...wasted. And when she laved her tongue on the underside, John spread his legs wider and pushed up a little. Gratified by the response, she sucked lightly, intrigued by how the head fit against her upper palate, the heaviness of it. She was reminded of the times with Philip, when they had dared one another to see who could fit a whole apricot into their mouth. She had won. She sucked again and squeezed with her hand. Judging by the sounds he was making, he was enjoying what she was doing rather a lot. She sucked lightly and was rewarded with a jerk of his hips and a whine. She did it again, and so did he. From there she decided to explore even more. She wanted to find out all the things that would make him moan, would make him shake, would make him use language he normally apologized for…even though she quite liked it when he was in the depths of his passion.

"Mary," he gasped.

Startled, Mary looked up at his strained, red face.

"Mary - I need - I want - "

Keeping eye contact, Mary slowly lowered her head and took him into her mouth once again.

He hardened in her hand and then her mouth was abruptly filled with bitter salt. Surprised, she pulled up, letting the fluid slip out of her mouth. She was immediately almost half blinded by another shot to her eye, her chin, her forehead.

"Fuck!" was John's heartfelt curse, and when Mary looked up at him, he was staring at her slit-eyed in the depths of his pleasure.

Mary wasn't sure what to do next. Her eye was stinging and burning and quite frankly she wanted the awful taste out of her mouth. But John was sitting up, taking the opportunity to smear his essence across her lips.

"You beauty," he whispered, wonderment plain in his voice. "Come here."

He kissed her fiercely, touching her with both hands as if he couldn't get enough. She was satisfied that he was happy, and felt completely justified and happy that she hadn't asked him about...what she had done.

He brushed her hair off of her forehead. "What...what made you think of doing that?"

She shrugged one shoulder, wiping her eyes and face with the bottom of her chemise. "I thought you might like it."

"Jesus g-d, yes, yes I do like it. I've only - " he stopped abruptly, glancing away.

Mary felt a moment's bitter jealousy that she was not the first to perform such an act on him, then dismissed the feeling a second later. None of those women had been her. None of them could surprise him as she had.

John grimaced. "Sorry."

"It's nothing," she said, heartfelt. "I wanted to do it."

"I'll never say no," he joked, sobering immediately after. "Thank you. I never expected...not from you."

"I shall endeavour to always remain so when we're in bed."

"And out of it, I hope."

"Within reason," she said, slapping him lightly on his chest. "Mrs. Peabody will never have us back!"

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"Oh, you!"

He laughed and rolled onto his back, grabbed hold of her hand. "I'm ever so glad you came with me, that day."

She looked at him, smiling fondly. "Me too."

"Well. Let's go on as we started, eh?"

How could she not?

 

A week passed. Much to her delight, Mary began to have callers. Many were simply curious as to the new blood in town, while others were on more personal business with John. They settled into a routine, and for the first time in her life, Mary found herself at her ease, not worrying so much about what others thought of her, or wondering if strange men were going to acost her. Clearly, she needed to put her mind to some task. Something social, such as her work at Sister Simpson's. When she approached John with the idea, he would not hear of it.

"No," he said quite emphatically, firmly putting his novel on the mantel.

"But John-"

"No!"

Mary slumped against the back of the divan, unable to understand why what was perfectly acceptable to him in Palampur was impossible in Cawnpore.

He sighed, stared at the floor, and shook his head. "While I love that you have so much compassion in you as to want to help the needy, there are things happening, illness and disease the least among them, that make me fear for your health. For your life. "

"I don't understand..."

John crossed the room to crouch at her feet. He took her hands and lightly squeezed them. "I know, I know. There's not much I can tell you, either, that I'm sure you've haven't already heard. Trust me on this, please. I'm not doing it because I don't want you to help, I'm doing this because I love you and I don't want to see you hurt."

The worst part was that she absolutely believed him. "Alright, then."

"Good," he said, standing up. "Now, to appease the wound I've just administered, I'll show some of the fundamentals of medicine. Where do you want to start, stitching or wrapping?"

"Oh - oh!" Mary clapped her hands and practically leapt to her feet. "Oh, I don't know! John, can we do both?"

He grinned. "I should have known. Come on, then, let's get started."

A few days later, Mary was poring over a diagram of human musculature in Gray's Anatomy, when John entered the parlour.

"Look," said John, holding a card over her shoulder. "We've been invited to the Seymours for entertainment."

Mary laid down her pen and took the card, read the fine script on the card with some amazement. Saturday, seven in the evening, dinner and dance to follow. Turning it over, she made sure it was actually addressed to both of them, not just John. She looked up at him. "How - how is this possible?"

"We doctors have our ways," he said, tapping the side of his nose.

"You saved someone's life," she guessed, delighting at how his face crinkled up in happiness. She jumped to her feet, throwing her arms around his neck. "Someone important."

"Mm," he gave her a peck on the cheek and squeezed her briefly, then stepped away, reaching into his pocket as he did so. He brought out a small envelope. "Now, I have been advised that young ladies like to look presentable when being introduced to members of Society, and so I have a small token of appreciation for my beautiful young wife."

Oh, perhaps it was another cameo! Biting her lip, she tried not to make it obvious how desperate she was to see what was in the envelope. Maybe she could just rip it out of his hand and run away?

"Ah, ah, ah!" John said, singsong fashion, shaking his head. He held it high above where she could reach. "What'll you give me for it?"

"John!" she said reproachfully.

He raised an eyebrow.

Mary asked the obvious question. "Well, what do you want?"

Rubbing one corner of the envelope against his lips, he hummed thoughtfully. "I know. You, in this house, naked."

She went feverish with lust so quickly she had to fan herself with one hand. "In our bed?"

John slowly shook his head, his hot gaze almost more than she could bear. "Is that what I said?"

"No, John," she answered. The worst part, the most shameful part, was how she felt herself moisten and loosen. Hungry to do his bidding. If he wanted to take her in front of their open door at high noon, with chai wallahs and derzi and mooing cows passing by, she would let him.

And enjoy every minute of it.

He would, too, oh how he would.

"Are we agreed?"

"Yes, John."

He gave his close-mouthed smile, the one that meant he was pleased, very pleased indeed. Letting the envelope drop by one corner, he offered it to her silently. Mary took it - no brooch, it was too light for that or indeed, any other jewelry. There was definitely something inside of it, though. Peering at the top, she saw that it was sealed and shot a look of annoyance at John. He just grinned and waited while she took the letter opener from her desk and made it do its duty.

"Careful now."

Slowing down her every move, making John tsk with impatience, Mary put the opener away - back into its drawer, even - closed her eyes, reached in to the envelope and removed...notepaper? Frowning, she opened her eyes and looked down - dear g-d! "John - how - how much is this worth?"

He stepped close enough to kiss, cupping her hand in his. "Whatever you want."

She shook her head with increasing vehemence. "No, I can't take this, I can't! It's too much! I'm no Lady, John - "

"You are to me," he said intensely, softly, which somehow made it all that more meaningful. "We didn't have a big ceremony with all of our families at our backs, we had no bridesmaid nor gentlemen, no cake with which to break our fast, at the time I could not even provide you with a ring. But I have this to offer you now. The merest proof of my esteem for you..."

He trailed off, and Mary took pity at his embarrassment at having spoken so freely. Rising up on her toes a little, she kissed the corner of his mouth. "You must tell me, what color should I wear?"

"Blue," he murmured. "I like you in blue. And pink, the pink, you know what I mean."

Yes, the white pantalettes with the pink embroidery. She didn't have the heart to tell him she was still repairing them from the last time he had seen her in them. Since that night, however, she had endeavoured to make other...adjustments, to her clothing. Adjustments she was sure he would enjoy. Just thinking about them made her want to jump up and model them, but no, she would wait for a time when they would be less likely to be disturbed. "Then I must be off to the derzi. I'll need all the time I can get for the dinner."

"And dance," he added.

"I thought you didn't dance?"

"Only when needs must, as they will on Saturday."

Undoubtedly he was right. Which meant she would have to plan her wardrobe very well indeed.

Leaving John in the study, Mary gathered her reticule and headed to Mohammed Singh's. He was a very good, very reasonably priced derzi, plus he had a fine selection of fabrics. Not only was that in his favour, but Mrs. Peabody and Miss Grambs were very keen that Mary use only him for her dresses.

Once outside, Mary swiftly made her way to Mohammed's. She was glad she would not have to go to Whitelaw's, where everyone else would be shopping for their gowns, or getting old gowns gussied up. She knew exactly what she wanted, and given that she wasn't going to need new stays or hoops, and her old slippers would do just fine with new ribbon for the lacing, yes, oh yes. She would be Cinderella at the ball!

Pleased with the dress to come, Mary took luncheon at Mrs. Peabody's, congratulated the newly engaged Miss Grambs, admired Mrs. Fitzgerald's new baby, commiserated with Mr. Jones and his daughter, Miss Daphne Jones, on the continued poor health of their wife and mother, who was suffering from the enteric fever, and finally made her way home, only to discover that John had company.

Mary froze in the middle of removing her hat, the deep rumble of laughter coming from the sitting room deeply discomfiting. There was John's giggle, yes, plus an assortment of others, whom she didn't recognise. John didn't often bring the men home, not apart from Lt. Col. Bradford, whom she had met exactly once, bobbing a polite curtsey before excusing herself for some reason she could no longer remember. John didn't speak of them, either. Not to her, anyway. Occasionally he came home in a rage, shaking his head and refusing to speak further on whatever was disturbing him.

Breaking free of her momentary lapse, Mary hung up her hat and removed her jacket. No need to be quiet, surely they had heard her come in. That was the only reason she was moving so slowly, retouching her hair in the hallway mirror, making sure she looked presentable after her walk. That little runnel of dust, for example, along her hair line; she would have to remove it before joining their company. Would they want tea? Either way, first she had to see how many there were. Yes...that was it. How many. Perhaps she could just figure it out from their conversation?

There was a lull, so she walked softly to the partially open drawing room door, making sure to stay out of sight, and listened carefully.

"Carmichael's an ass," muttered someone who sounded like they were speaking through clenched teeth.

"An ass and a sycophant," offered a deeper voice.

"I won't disagree with you, there," said John. "But he's good when you're in a pinch."

"Oh, let's stop talking about him already," said yet a third man."Is anyone betting on Showalter to get the prize?"

"Not me, Black Bessie's got a sprain, she won't be doing much on the field for the next two weeks."

"Dammit all! "

"Bertie, tell me you haven't bet your wages again!"

"You're one to talk, Captain," replied Bertie.

"Ah, but I win and you, you do not," crowed John.

Covering her mouth through her shock, Mary could hear the triumph in John's voice. A gambler? A gambler? He had never mentioned that he gambled, though perhaps she was foolish not to think of it in the first place, to have not even asked...she had hot prickles all over and wiped her face free of sudden perspiration again. Well, now she knew. She would have to plan for other eventualities, in case it turned out he was the most profligate of men. He had not struck her as such, but men did hide things from their wives, she had heard as much and worse during afternoon cards in Palampur. She had never mentioned the money Richard had given her to John, and now she never would. It would be her secret.

"You certainly did," said the man with the deep voice. "I've seen your wife from afar, she's a beautiful girl."

Mary stepped back a little.

One of the canvas chairs creaked. "Aye, she's a little cracker. But the real question is, is she any good in the sack? Y'know none of them are true virgins, at least not in the ass."

The depth of silence which followed this statement was terrifying. Someone cleared their throat, a boot scraped against the floor, a glass clinked on to a table.

"Drummond, you're the ass," said Bertie. "A damned shameful thing to say in front of her husband."

"Say anything like that again about my wife, Captain, and more than words will be spoken."

"Didn't mean any offence by it. Just in my experience that's how it is."

Another man chuckled. "Experience? I wouldn't call visiting all the whorehouses in Delhi 'experience'."

"Don't knock it until you've tried it, Winterson."

The tinkling of piano keys drifted to a halt, then the fourth man spoke again. "What's married life like, Captain?"

John hesitated in answering. Mary knew she should move again, but she desperately wanted to know the answer.

"You want the truth?" John said softly. "The truth is that it is the best thing I've ever done in my life."

Mary fell back against the way, dazed, quite dazed, to hear John speak. She blinked back tears, for surely he knew she felt exactly the same way about him?

"Good G-d, man, you're in love!" cried Bertie. "He's in love, boys!"

"I couldn't have asked for a better companion," John continued, voice raised over the hullabaloo until the room quieted down again. "She has everything one wants for a wife; beauty, brains - "

"And...?" asked Drummond.

In the silence that followed, Mary moved to the door and peered through the gap between door and frame. Through some quirk of chance, she had a perfect view of John, standing by the mantel and smiling enigmatically at the men seated around the card table.

"Are we playing, or not?" John asked mildly, his hands behind his back.

"But before we do -"

Winterson or Drummond, she thought, stepping back further into the dimness of the hallway as someone approached the table from the direction of the piano.

"Tell us, would you be willing to share, like we did in Sevastapol?"

There was a very potent silence.

"That's my wife you're talking about, Sergeant Winterson."

"You didn't mind, before."

"I wasn't married to any of those women."

"All right, all right, don't get your duff up, old boy. Now, who's up for Whist? Or shall it be Bezique?"

"Whist, right?" said Bertie nervously. "Before we begin, can I get you a drink, Captain Watson?"

Oh, nicely done. Mary nodded approvingly at Drummond's tactic. It wouldn't work, of course. As she had come to discover, John was not the kind of man who forgot slights of that nature. And as for what Winterson had suggested...she couldn't get her head around it. Besides, it was time to do make some distraction herself, before John did something he would regret. Or not.

The moment was over.

Mary tip-toed all the way back to the front door, opened it and then closed it loudly. She then walked back to the side table, waited the appropriate length of time it would take for her to remove her hat, then started towards their bedroom. It might be that John would see her and call her in, or maybe not. Either way, she wanted him to know she was in the house, so she wouldn't overhear - deliberately or not - that kind of conversation again.

"Mary!"

Taking a quick, deep breath while smoothing her skirt, Mary hesitated only a little before sweeping into the room.

Those men seated rose to their feet, bowing slightly in her direction. They were a motley crew, two of them sporting beards of such quality that Mary wasn't sure where chins began and necks ended.

John approached her, holding out one hand. "Mary, please meet Lieutenant Allen, Captain Drummond, Captain Bannatyne, and Sergeant Winterson."

Mary could barely meet their eyes, choosing instead to look at their beards, their chests, anywhere but their faces. John stood in the way Mary had come to understand meant he was deeply angry; upright posture, hands behind his back, the slightest upwards curl to his lips that only a few would think was a smile. Yet, look into his eyes and the emotions were another matter entirely.Next to her, though he showed no outward appearance of being angry, she could tell John was seething with anger. "Are you playing whist?"

"Yes," said the clean shaven man, with his shock of bright red hair. "Whist is one of our favorites, but I think we've played upon the captain's good graces for far too long this afternoon."

"Bannatyne - " protested Winterson, frowning as Bertie put his cards on the table and stood.

Bertie shot him a look of ill-disguised contempt. "I must go, I'm afraid. Mrs. Watson, it was lovely to meet the woman who stole away our Captain's time."

"I'm afraid I also have an appointment," said Drummond, getting to his feet as well.

The fourth man, who sported a tremendous black beard, looked back and forth between Drummond and Bertie. "Wait, are we not playing?"

Drummond clapped one hand on to the man's shoulder and bodily hauled him him up. Drummond hustled Lieutenant Allen out of the room, flashing a grimace of an apology towards Mary as they went. "Come on, Lieutenant. Places to go, people to see. Good evening, Mrs. Watson. Pleasure to meet you."

Winterson, however, took is time about it, collecting the cards and making a perfect stack of them in the center of the table. He nodded at John as he rounded to table, said, "Think about it."

And then, as he passed Mary, tugged his forelock. "Ma'am."

John's nostrils flared and Mary hastily stepped in his way. After glancing over her shoulder to make sure Winterson was gone, she turned back to John. "He's not worth it."

It seemed to Mary that she blinked and the room was emptied of people, leaving only her alone. She could hear voices in the hallway, then the front door closing. A second later John stormed into the room, slamming the door behind himself. She jumped a little.

"How much of that did you overhear?" he asked, swinging around to face her.

Mary couldn't say the words - she couldn't. Anxiously picking at her fingernails, she stared at his boots instead.

"Damn them!"

"That's kind of you to say - " she began, but he was having none of it. She gasped as he took her by her shoulders.

"You're mine, Mary."

"Yes, John," she managed, before he kissed her, hard, pulling up her skirt and petticoat at the same time."What are you doing!" She sputtered, torn between running to close the door and pushing his hands away. What if one of the servants were to come in? What would people think!

He didn't answer, instead tugging at her hip. Something gave and then her hoops were around her ankles. His hand felt her out beneath the chemise and pantalettes - she wasn't ready and he was not gentle.

"Oh g-d - " she whimpered as he pulled her close, his leg between her own, only his tight grip on her waist keeping her upright. Mary clung to his shoulders while he licked his fingers, staring into her eyes all the while.

"All right?" he husked, even though it was clear he was going to continue on regardless of what she said.

Mary nodded, closed her eyes when mouthed the skin above her collar. Don't leave a mark! she silently begged.

John raised his head enough to whisper into her ear, "Back up."

Awkwardly, she did so, until she met up with a wall - John sidestepped and now there was something hard against her back. She slammed one hand down and ah, she was at the window, her hand on the sill. Within seconds John had lifted her to sit upon it. He kept close, kissing her wildly, all the while undoing his trousers.

"You're mine, none of them can have you," he growled.

"I am," she said breathlessly, for it was nothing but the truth. "Do you want me?"

"You know I do," he answered.

"Then take me," she said. Her own excitement was rising. She wasn't really ready yet, but neither did she want John to stop.

John pulled her forward until she was just sitting on the edge of the window sill. He licked his fingers again and wiped them against her, then entered her hard and swift. She hissed at the burn of it, then clung on to the sill for all she was worth while he gripped under her knees. Happily, she quickly grew slippery and could relax, apart from keeping her balance. The angle was wrong, so she knew she wouldn't be feeling any joy from this encounter. Poor John, though, was getting frustrated, it was obvious in his grimace.

Finally Mary could no longer hang on, and threw her arms about John's shoulders once more. "John," she said, letting her voice go high and wavery, because he liked it when she sounded desperate (and she so often was). "Make me yours - ruin me for any other man - "

The words had the desired affect. He redoubled his efforts with short but swift strokes, sweat beading on his forehead.

"Give it to me, yes, just like that!"

He gasped and pulled her as tightly as possible, growing impossibly hard within her and then grunting through his pleasure.

They stayed that way until John's breathing slowed, and he slipped out of her body. It didn't take long. The accompanying rush of fluid was unpleasant, as always, and she hoped none of it would get on her dress. The pantalettes were ruined, of course, though if she were lucky, her stockings might escape unscathed.

John lifted her off the sill and set about tidying himself. While he did that, Mary stepped into her hoops, realized it would be too difficult to do them up while wearing her petticoat and skirt, and practically ran to their bedroom instead. She ended up changing completely. Although she had been assured that temperatures in Cawnpore were ragingly hot after May, up until today she couldn't say she felt the heat, particularly. And really, it wasn't the heat so much as the incredible moisture in the air. It couldn't possibly be true, but she felt damp no matter what she was doing, even the mere act of dressing in the morning had that effect upon her. Anyway, she took the opportunity to freshen up with a squeeze of a lime peel under each arm, and a swipe of a damp washcloth between her breasts and legs, then rejoined John in the parlour.

His expression was hang-dog when she entered the room. He drew himself upright. "I'm sorry. That was...uncouth of me."

Mary didn't know what to say. Why would he apologize? She was his wife, she was his to do with what he wished, when he wished...right?

"I...did I hurt you?"

"No...no of course not," she answered, slowly approaching him, because it seemed to her that he was ready to bolt, like a frightened horse.

He frowned, shook his head. "There's no 'of course not', not between us. I'm a doctor, Mary, as well as a soldier. I know what men have done, and what they will do to women. "

"You didn't hurt me," she said, once again aware of how lucky she was in choosing this man above all others.

"You'll tell me, though."

'Of course' sprang to her lips, but she didn't say it. She wished to reassure him, yet found such difficulty in saying the words, because she wasn't sure she would. The realization was swift, that she would do anything for him, along with the knowledge that she would never, ever tell him so.

"Mary - "

"Yes, I shall. But you won't hurt me, John. You couldn't."

He looked at her then, and Mary recognized disbelief, quickly followed by pity, before he glanced away. Pity? Why pity? "Not...not that way," she clarified. Time for the truth, then. She took his hands in both of hers. "Yes, I wasn't quite ready, but you made sure I was prepared...that's what I meant."

"You'll tell me, next time?"

She nodded solemnly. "Next time. I promise."

John closed his eyes, shoulders slumping. "Please...don't let me turn into a brute, Mary. Don't..."

Mary had to embrace him, stunned by the fear in his voice. "I won't, I won't, I won't..."

 

~*~

 

Friday. The day before the party at Mrs. Seymour's. Thanks to Mrs. Peabody, she would know a few people there. Not many, obviously, but nonetheless, she was looking forward to the evening. Somewhat. There was her new dress to collect, of course, and a new journal for John, plus a packet of linen handkerchiefs at Woolwich's.

Thus it was that Mary was quite unprepared to turn the corner opening on to Cawnpore's main bazaar, and quite literally run into Miss Evelyn Capshaw and her sister, Mrs. Rosamund Rex. A gaggle of women were at their heels, some of whom Mary recognized from her ball-going days in Palampur.

"Miss Morstan!" cried Evelyn, twirling her white parasol above her head. "Oh, Rosamund, look, it's Mary Morstan!"

"Yes, I see," answered Rosamund, eyeing Mary from head to foot. "Ladies, it's Miss Morstan. Mis Hayder, this is Flora and Sophronia's…cousin, Miss Morstan."

Mary, already warm from the blistering sun overhead, flushed even harder. She wished she could step into the lee of the building and cool off in the shade, crowded as it was. Though she was not dressed in her finest, and she knew she looked more than suitable in her rose green day dress, she still felt like the lowest peasant compared to the women facing her. The latest fashion was on parade, all pale blues and yellows and greens, tiny, lacey parasols gripped in net gloves. Mary was not even sure where her gloves were, though she did remember opening the box after moving in to the house. "It's Mrs. Watson, now."

"Oh that's right!" said Evelyn, glancing back at her audience. "You married...Corporal Watson, was it?"

"Captain Watson," corrected Mary. Oh, she was in for it now. Yet she could not, would not let John be maligned by these, these bitches!

Rosamund smiled slightly. "How nice for you. When are you going back to that little hill town?"

Mary almost snorted with disdain. If this was the best Rosamund could do, Mary needn't worry. "Palampur? Probably not. Let it not be said that John will ever shirk his duty, nor I as his wife."

"A soldier, though," said Miss Hayder, pushing her way to the front of the small crowd of women. "What must he be like in bed, I wonder?"

"Alice!" Evelyn said reprovingly, even though she was smiling.

"Well," Miss Hayder shrugged one shoulder. "Soldiers aren't known for their decorum or lovemaking, are they?"

Miss Hayder was perfectly blonde and blue-eyed and petite, her dress a pure sky blue. It was there and then that Mary decided she hated Miss Hayder. Hated the lot of them. Funny, how in Palampur she had both dreaded and looked forward to going out with them. Hated them, because they would never accept for her, yet loved going out with them, for they were entertaining and allowed her to come along to places she would never have gone on her own. Would probably never even been invited to. Why, she had once spent three weeks in Simla with Mrs. Gertrude Bailey, now a married mother of two. Gertie had treated her nicely enough - or at least she had not ignored Mary, as Rosamund had done. In act, Rosamund was nothing but a wealthier, prettier version of Flora - but less interesting.

Desperate to change the subject, Mary said, "Have you seen the gold market? I'm told it's the biggest in Oudh."

Miss Hayder raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure."

Mary was positive she was being insulted, but just how was escaping her. She turned her attention to Rosamund, who was recently married herself, and whose husband, Major Rex, was known as a major rex-hole. Unkind, perhaps, but it made John laugh before he mock sternly told everyone not to repeat such blasphemy in his presence. Being that normal rex-holes had a hard job to do on a daily basis, and shouldn't be bashed. By the time Mary had understood exactly what they were giggling over, the moment had passed. "How is Major Rex? I understand he is to be sent to the Crimea?"

This time there was no question - Mary felt Miss Hayder's words like a slap in the face.

Miss Fraser and Miss Willis flanked Mary on either side, Rosamund and Evelyn facing her, and the rest surrounding her like vultures over a corpse. Well, she was not dead yet!

"So tell us," said Miss Fraser eagerly. "What was it like?"

"Sorry?"

"The wedding night!" squealed Miss Willis, who had grown up in Rome and undoubtedly seen things no young woman should see.

"It was...fine?" answered Mary, quite abashed, yet at the same time wanting to share with someone, anyone, how amazing John was in bed, and out of it.

"Oh, do tell!" said the two of them, in concert. It was eerie, for they were not twins, were not related to one another what-so-ever.

One of the other ladies whom Mary was unfamiliar with, called over Evelyn's shoulder, "Was he strong with you? Isabel Jones said her husband took her so forcefully she was bruised for days, and that the only relief she gets is when he's away."

Mary shrugged, unwilling to discuss her personal life with John in a market, surrounded by a herd of women with nothing better to do than shop and gossip. "There's really nothing more to say."

"I suppose not," said Miss Hayder with a sceptical eyebrow, continuing on as if Mary had said nothing. She smirked and glanced at her friends. "I suppose there are always those who succumb to the basest of instincts, like animals in the field."

A few of the ladies tittered behind their hands, and Mary knew she was done. She would be the laughingstock of society here in Cawnpore, she could sense it. Gripping her basket more tightly in her hand, she said, "I must to the market. Pray excuse me."

With a bright smile, because she refused to give them any more fuel for the fire, Mary rudely pushed her way through and continued on her way to the bazaar. What she wanted to do was go home and cry, and what she was going to do was finish her shopping, find a book to read at Messr's Jones and company, then return home and put away some of the things with which she passed the time.

By the time Mary got home, she was tired, hot, and not only footsore, but heartsore as well. Should she even broach the subject with John? And what was she going to tell him - "Ladies have been mean to me!". On second thought, no. There were always going to be ladies of their ilk, and ladies of her own persuasion. She might even be able to find them, if she put out feelers and then waited for the tiniest inspiration. Oh, the world for a confidant!

Despite Mary's best intentions, what Miss Hayder had implied kept running through her mind. Finally, she broached the subject after dinner that night, while they were in the parlour.

"John, am I unnatural?"

He looked at her sharply. "Unnatural?"

Mary dared not glance at him. If he thought she was, she did not think she could bear it.

"Mary, what do you mean?" he asked, turning to look at her directly.

"When we're together - in bed - am I...indelicate? I know I'm no lady, but I should not like to embarrass you in any way."

"Who said this?"

"Just...some ladies I came across," she answered.

John frowned and stepped closer to her, sliding his hands around her hips. "No, you're not unnatural. If anything, you are the most natural woman I know. You have loosened society's constraints and that is no bad thing. Haven't we already had this discussion?"

She shrugged, vaguely remembering him talking about the same at Mrs. McCutcheon's.

He dipped down a little to catch her eye, and she could not help but smile back at him a little. His grip tightened and then she was being lifted up and deposited on the table. He pressed her legs apart and moved between them, pushed her back until she was forced to either grab on to this shoulders for support, or lie down completely.

Mary shivered at the tickle of his lips against the side of her neck.

"You are the woman every man wants. Beautiful, intelligent, accomplished. Compassionate and," he leaned back and waggled his eyebrows. "Very passionate in private. Ordinary women want to be you, and are jealous because they can't. Yes?"

"Yes," she said, smiling, because he was ridiculous and utterly sincere at the same time. Those things were lovely to hear, even if they weren't strictly true.


	7. Chapter 7

Saturday arrived. Mary prepared by taking a cool bath after luncheon, for the day was already warming up. She even went through the trouble of washing her hair, though she was drawing it close, given how long it took to dry. There were unguents to put on her skin as well. Oils to keep her skin soft, musky amber perfume on the insides of her wrists, her decolletage, the crook of her elbow, behind her knees, a swipe of her wrists under her ears, on her fingertips through her hair.

On the bed, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, was her dress. She licked her lips and stroked the package, quite unable to believe what was inside. John would love it, she was sure.

Mary did not call a servant. She took her time getting dressed. Her good slippers that laced up to the ankle, pantalettes, stockings that tied with a scarlet ribbon at the knee, short chemise, stays, underblouse, hoop, petticoat, and then, finally, the skirt and matching overblouse.

Mary slipped the matching shawl over her shoulders and took one last critical look in the full length mirror. The dress was blue, as John had requested, and of the finest silk. It was the color of early twilight during winter, that peculiar shade of pale indigo that appeared just as the brightest stars began to twinkle in the sky. The iridescence of the beetles wings which made up the design along the hem and sleeves was stunning when caught by the light, dripping down from the waist. There was the brilliant sparkle of emerald and teal, the occasional shimmer of saffron yellow and coal orange, topped by the shawl in an even paler shade of indigo with the same design along the borders, a circular mandala design in the center. Herself in the middle of it, not the stark white of those English who never allowed the sun to kiss their skin, nor the dark skin of the tea pickers, but a far creamier color that was somewhere in between them all. She was pleased with her hair as well, bound simply with a few pearls like stars amidst the darkness.

Nodding once at her reflection, Mary took a deep breath. This was it. This would be her formal entrance into Society as a married woman. Whatever else should happen this night, her dress was perfect, everything she could ever want.

John was picking something off of his coat when Mary turned the corner. She glided down the hall, then stopped halfway to the foyer, waiting for him to notice.

"Is there a stain by the button?" John asked, peering at the mirror. "I just can't tell in this light."

"It's fine," she said, because she had already asked herself the same thing only the day before, determining it was just a trick of the light.

"Hmm, good, " He muttered, before turning and catching sight of her. "My g-d."

She couldn't make sense of his tone. "Is it all right?"

He shook his head, slowly walked towards her. "You look utterly amazing."

"Do I? I liked the color."

Taking her hands in his, he brought her to the hallway mirror, then stood behind her, arms around her waist. "How do you feel?"

She answered honestly. "Like a queen."

John kissed the area between her shoulder and neck, and she shivered, as she always did. "And I, your king."

"Always," she breathed, closing her eyes at the delicious tingle shooting straight to her groin from the brush of his lips.

They took a rickshaw to Herald House, leaving it at the gate and walking up the drive. Grand, of course, everything of the highest quality, as could only be expected. Why she was left feeling a little cold by it, a little underwhelmed by such an ostentatious display of wealth was mystifying. Well, maybe it was because she was no longer used to such grandeur? She did not have the money to waste frivolously on vases and flowers and statuary, on multiple tea sets and silverware to be polished twice a week, table runners and wool carpets, et cetera, et cetera. No, she liked their bungalow as it was; neat, tidy, everything in its place.

The place was mad with guests, so many that in fact Mary wondered if their invitation was less by design and more, perhaps, by mistake. On the other hand, there were plenty of military men wandering about with their wives. the public rooms were heaving with people, the atmosphere was very warm and the noise!

John pushed through the crowd and brought her to the tables to take some refreshment.

"Alright?" he asked, handing her a glass of punch.

"I will be," she answered, turning to look over the room. "I'm not used to being around so many people."

"You should be. You're a beautiful woman in an exquisite gown, you deserve the attention of every single man here."

His compliment made her blush and forced her to look away once more.

After their punch, John steered her towards a group of officers, introduced the lot, none of whom Mary had met and whose names she was desperate to remember. She dutifully stayed by his side, smiling at jokes she didn't understand and hoping she wasn't making a fool of him. His earlier point was proven true; the men coveted her and were clearly envious of John. Mary found she was pleased for him, and even more oddly, both scared and flattered by all of their attention. Was this what marriage did for a woman? Take her off the market and somehow she became more appealing? How strange.

Never again would she wear new shoes to a ball, either. She was already footsore and she hadn't even done any dancing yet, providing John was amenable. So focused was she on her feet, that she almost missed the call of her name. Glancing over her shoulder, she was surprised to see Vanessa Parker walking rapidly towards her with arms outstretched.

"Mary!"

"Vanessa!" cried Mary, so happy to see someone she recognized, never mind knew intimately. Vanessa was resplendent in dark crimson, pearls glinting in her hair, pearl drops hanging from her ears, even a pearl bracelet. "You look amazing!"

"You're not so bad yourself," replied Vanessa, taking both of Mary's hands in her own. "Come, let me steal you away from your husband for a moment and introduce you to Mrs. Seymour."

"Oh, oh, I - I was not expecting such an honor," Mary said, anxiously looking at John.

He was conversing with another officer, but catching sight of Vanessa, immediately turned to Mary.

"John, this is Miss Parker. She wants to introduce me to Mrs. Seymour!"

"Ah, excellent idea," he said with a little bow towards Vanessa."We've met before...?"

Vanessa nodded. "At a meal with the Glendennings, in Palampur. You had just had a skirmish with some thugs, had barely gotten away."

"Of course," he bowed again. "Please take good care of my wife, she can be flighty at formal events."

While it wasn't an untruth, Mary was surprised he had said such a thing. Perhaps he was overly comfortable in Vanessa's presence. Perhaps he was overly confident in Vanessa's abilities to keep Mary from making herself.

"Come on, then!" and then to John - "I'll return her in one piece, don't you worry."

Vanessa hovered close to Mary as they worked their way out of the ballroom. -Vanessa led Mary into the foyer and from there, up the stairs and down a hall, where she halted next to an alcove holding a pillar with a temple dancer atop the plinth. Vanessa took Mary's elbow and pulled her into the alcove. Voices and laughter echoed in the hall.

"Mary," Vanessa whispered, even though there was no one within hearing range. "Before we go any further I just have to apologize for not visiting you earlier. I consider you a friend and I, I'm ashamed I let my head rule my heart."

Mary looked askance at the other woman. "How do you mean?"

"I...we all know you're in town. Can't miss a thing with the gossips in this country," Vanessa said, smiling half-heartedly. "Despite what it looks like, I feel like you and Antonia are the only ones who understand me. And I think you are very brave."

"Brave? Me?"

"Well, don't you? Running away and marrying your soldier, giving up everything you know...what else would you call it?"

Mary shook her head helplessly. She hadn't been brave, she'd been foolhardy, and it was only luck that she had found a good man, a decent man, a man willing to take a chance on her.

"Nonetheless, I am sorry I've treated you so poorly. Now," said Vanessa, straightening slightly and glancing towards the room at the end of the hall, where they had been heading. "Before we go in and meet Mrs. Seymour, you should know Lord and Lady Glendenning are here, as are Flora and Sophronia."

"Oh..." Mary's stomach abruptly soured. She wondered if there was a way to quickly and quietly retire to a room by herself for awhile.

Vanessa took Mary firmly by the wrist and began to pull her down the hall. "They know you're here. They know you married your Captain Watson and are happy. Don't let them take that away from you."

Mary jerked her wrist back and stopped. "Why are you doing this? You'll ruin your reputation if you are seen near me."

"Oh, Mary," Vanessa shook her head. "I'm twenty four years old, and I've never been married. I'm traveling the world while I can still do whatever I want, before the husbands and children make their appearance, before I have to stay at home and do all that's expected of me. I wanted to have an adventure and I'm having an adventure! Years from now, this time will be mine and mine alone...can you understand that?"

She could, in a way.

"Now come, let's meet the others."

Mary dutifully followed Vanessa out of the alcove and down the hall, wondering all the while if this was the wisest course of action. She had neither written to nor seen her former family since the night John had taken her away. In truth, she had given them little thought beyond wondering if they missed her. Oddly, she had discovered that she hadn't missed them, or the things she had so treasured. Her social circle with John was with entirely different…and she was all right with that.

The salon was less crowded than downstairs, but here stood and sat the great and the good. Their clothing was of a higher quality, a subtle difference that made her glad John had given her the blank chit, and eve more glad she had made a greater effort than she normally would have for the occasion. A subtle difference that made her glad she had designed exactly what she had wanted for her dress, price be damned.

The room was a blur as Vanessa took her to the corner of the room where Mrs. Seymour was holding court. Mrs. Seymour could be glimpsed as her audience of men and women shifted from foot to food, hanging on her every word.

Though Mary was no longer part of society, over the years she had heard enough about Mrs. Seymour to know that she was considered either a genius or an upstart. Strangely, one or the other depended on whom one spoke to, the women universally seemed to dislike her, while the men admired her.

Mary was aware of people turning to look at she and Vanessa, but she ignored them all to take in Mrs. Seymour, who was holding court on a white cushioned divan featuring intricately carved wooden arms and back. Mrs. Seymour herself was dark haired and blue eyed, and matched the divan in a pale gray dress with paisleys and bhuttis in gold thread. As Mrs. Seymour listened to a gentleman make a joke, Mary could see that her gaze, while intent, was not one of unfettered joy.

Mrs. Seymour turned her scrutiny upon Vanessa and Mary, and Mary hoped she was not found wanting.

"Ah, Miss Parker, I see you've brought a friend."

"Yes," said Vanessa, curling one arm around Mary's shoulders. "This is my friend, Mrs. Mary Watson. She's only recently moved to Cawnpore, and I thought I would make the introductions."

Mary curtsied, heard titters from the sides and wished she had only nodded instead.

"Mrs. Watson...yes. From one of the hill stations, I believe?"

"Yes, ma'am. From Palampur."

"How wonderful. How are you finding Cawnpore?"

"It's my first time here, ma'am, and at first glance is very crowded," said Mary, keeping her attention on Mrs. Seymour, and Mrs. Seymour alone.

Mrs. Seymour's eyes abruptly widened as she leaned back. "Mrs. Watson - are you married to Dr. Watson?"

"The same, ma'am."

"How wonderful! Your Dr. Watson is a remarkable man."

For the first time that evening, Mary smiled and meant it. "Yes, he is."

"I should like to see him, if it can be managed."

"Of course," said Mary, twitching towards the hallway before recalling herself and standing still. "I would be happy to get him for you."

Mrs. Seymour shook her head and stood up. "No, I have been seated for far too long. Now come," she swept forward and tucked Mary's arm under her own. "tell me how you met our good Dr. Watson."

It was overwhelming, being on the arm of the host of the party, especially one so well admired by practically everyone. Mrs. Seymour was much taller than Mary, she almost felt like a child. And the way everyone looked at them! Looking at her with creased eyebrows and bewilderment, speaking behind their hands as if Mrs. Seymour wouldn't notice. Because she did.

Coming down the stairs, Mrs. Seymour tilted her head towards Mary. Under her breath, she said, "They don't like it."

"Ma'am?"

"They don't like it when upstarts like me and you become the stars they so desperately want to be. But I married my Harry, and you married Dr. Watson, and now look at us both. "

Mrs. Seymour must have read something in Mary's face, for she continued on with a laugh. "Oh, Mrs. Watson, you remind me so much of myself when I first came to these shores as a young bride. I knew nothing, nothing, and it's only through hard work, observation, and the continued good health of my brother that I am where I am today. You have been brought up well, and despite your family situation you carry yourself with pride, as well you should. Never let anyone tell you you're not good enough," whispered Mrs. Seymour fiercely. "Don't let them dictate who and what you are, or what you can do. India is not the only country in the world, there are other places where you will be equally happy, if not happier."

"Yes, ma'am," Mary answered equally softly.

It was a lot to take in, but Mrs. Seymour appeared to be finished, for with a slight pull of her arm, she started down the stairs, talking in a normal tone of voice.

"Oh, don't ma'am me," Mrs. Seymour nodded gravely to the three women conversing at the bottom of the stairs. "We both know that what keeps them here is money, plan and simple. Don't let them tear you down. They'll take ever opportunity to do so, and not only to your face. Keep your chin up and your back straight. Your husband is a talented surgeon and will never be out a penny. Do your duty as his wife, and he will do his - I daresay he will go beyond his duty.""

How very...forthright. Still, Mary paid attention. It would not do to ignore advice from India's most senior and well known woman who was not only a tea wallah, but a box wallah, and if that weren't enough, the heir to various estates in England and France.

From the corner of her eye, Mary caught a flash of red, then quite a lot of red, and there was John, turning and smiling as he saw her. A moment later his eyes widened rather comically, and he began to make his way to her.

"Ah, there he is," said Mrs. Seymour gaily. "Captain Watson!"

John hastened to them and bent over Mrs. Seymour's hand. "Ma'am. How lovely to see you again."

"I've just been making the acquaintance of your delightful wife."

"She is, isn't she?" said John with a smile.

Both of them looked at Mary, and she blushed under their scrutiny. Or perhaps she blushed because she was under the scrutiny of everyone in the immediate vicinity.

"Pray excuse me,' said Mrs. Seymour. "I see Mr. Fowler has arrived and I must speak to him before Mr. Garrison commands his attention entirely."

"Of course," John stepped to one side of Mary and they watched her greet the gentleman in question. "I think you've made quite an impression."

Mary eyed John. "Do you think?"

"Yes. I've met Mrs. Seymour before and I can tell when she likes a person. You've made your mark and should use it to the fullest advantage."

"I...I'm not...I wouldn't know what for," said Mary cautiously. Thus far John hadn't seemed particularly interested in society, though of course it was useful to him in his work as a doctor. Yes, he received his packet from the Army, but that was hardly enough for a single man to live on, never mind one with a wife. No, it was his private clients, of whom he had many, who kept them in mufti.

John shrugged. "Something to keep in mind, nonetheless."

A gong rang, once, twice, thrice.

"Ah, dinner, finally. My stomach was beginning to think my throat's been cut."

Mary shook her head at the imagery, but was happy to head into the dining room as well, which turned out to be large and to her surprise, informal. It was handsomely dressed, with white tablecloths and everything shining in the light of the crystal chandeliers. There were low bowls of flowers floating in water on each table, which looked to seat at least nine people comfortably. None of the tables had cards on the plates and people were seating themselves willy nilly.

"Mary! Mary! Over here!"

John touched Mary's arm, nodded to their left. "Your friend, Mrs. Meadows."

"Antonia!" cried Mary, surprised and relieved to see someone she knew intimately. She hesitated only minutely, but at Antonia's happy smile, abruptly rushed forward towards her welcoming arms.

"Oh, I am so glad to see you!" said Antonia warmly, clasping Mary tight. "And you as well, Captain Watson."

John bowed. "The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Meadows."

"Call me Antonia, please. Mary, you look wonderful."

"As do you," said Mary, looking over her friend. Antonia wore a dark brown muslin dress with a wave design picked out with glass beads of dark copper. "You look marvelous in this dress."

Antonia smiled. "Thank you. That blue does something to your skin of which I am highly envious. But if we wish to dine, we should take to our table."

Glancing around, Mary saw that Antonia was right. Half the room was already seated and the rest was filling up quite quickly.

"Come this way, I had my companions save seats as soon as I saw you. Oh, I must catch you up on all the news!"

"Ah, I think this is the part where I leave you ladies to it," said John, putting his hands behind his back.

At first Mary was confused, then worried Antonia would take offence.

"Oh," said Antonia, lightly swatting at John. "Come, Mary, we shall leave the gentleman to his business, which is undoubtedly of heroics and other nonsense."

John grinned and winked. "But of course! Mary, I'll find you later."

Antonia took Mary's arm - and why did everyone keep doing that? - and pulled her away from John. "It's just as well," she said. "Richard only suffers my conversation on the times he cannot escape. I'm sure you've already discovered John has as little interest in the goings on of us women as you do with his Army compatriots."

Mary didn't quite know what to say to that. It wasn't as though she could tell Antonia that actually, she knew so few people who mattered in Cawnpore that there was nothing to gossip about. Yes, she could repeat what she had overheard the chai wallah say about the English, or that she knew Mr. Browne was having an affair with Mrs. King, or what Mrs. Peabody heard from third and even fourth parties, but where would that ultimately get her? Nowhere. Not that she had a desire to be anywhere for her own sake...oh, it was all so confusing! All she knew was that she wanted a peaceful life, with friends she could count on, and friends who would be helpful to John. Yes, that was it exactly. Was that so much to ask?

As soon as Antonia reached the table, Mary belatedly realized that of course she would be sitting with the Palampur set. Evelyn was seated next to her sister, Rosamund - together they gave her the same upraised eyebrow and smirk - while Miss Pamela Davies and Miss Corinne Starkweather simply ignored her for the sake of their conversation. Letty was nowhere in sight, and two ladies with whom Mary was unfamiliar nodded at her.

"Mary, this is Miss Strivilyn and Miss Walsh. Both are new to our shores, and staying with Miss Strivilyn's uncle, Sir Pericles Stirling," said Antonia, gesturing to each in turn.

Miss Strivilyn was what Uncle Frederick called 'handsome'. She was not pretty, not like Miss Hayder, who was seated one table over, yet attractive enough, though her frame was perhaps overly wide. Then she smiled, and Mary could not help but smile back. Her companion was a mousy sort, with an unfortunate long and narrow nose, with small brown eyes and, though it was painful to see, a bit of twitch to her person. Mary reined her opinions back, for did she not hate being judged on her own appearance? Miss Walsh was also very thin and extremely pale.

As if reading Mary's mind, Miss Strivilyn looked sympathetically at Miss Walsh. "Margaret had a difficult journey over, and although we've been here for a month already, is only now just becoming accustomed to the food and the weather."

"The heat," said Miss Walsh faintly, her Scottish accent pleasant on the ear. "It's fearsome."

"Wait until the summer months," Evelyn said unkindly. "You'll positively melt."

"Oh, that's not true," Antonia shot Evelyn a stern look. "You'll come to the hill stations where it's much cooler. No one stays in Cawnpore or Delhi when the heat is here."

"Yes," added Mary. "It's lovely in Simla and the other towns."

Evelyn and Rosamund eyed on another and Mary took a deep breath. She no longer lived in Palampur, they did not move in the same circles any more, she would never have to see them again after this night if she so chose. And, if Antonia decided she wanted to keep Mary's company, Mary would just have to explain to her the reasons why she needed to remain away from Evelyn and Rosamund.

"Well, now that you're here, let me bring you up to speed," Antonia said to Mary, leaning close and lowering her voice.

Before Antonia could say more, the first course was served.

Thankfully Miss Strivilyn was happily talking to Pamela and Corinne, while Miss Walsh listened in, looking rather miserable all the while, leaving Mary free to talk to Antonia.

"Flora's had the baby, I don't know if you heard."

Mary shook her head. "I saw her yesterday while going to collect my dress. She looked tired."

Antonia nodded. "She would be, she's already gotten another on her, though she's yet to show."

"Doesn't she know better?" asked Mary, shocked. "She's hardly a fool!"

"From what I understand, her husband is constantly pestering her."

"Well, is anyone surprised?" At Antonia's frown, Mary explained further. "You know I saw Sister Simpson at the orphanage more frequently than Uncle Frederick and Aunt Thomasine were aware - "

"Mary!"

" - I thought you knew!"

"I did not! Anyway, the orphanage - "

Mary leaned in even closer and whispered, hopefully loud enough to be heard over the din, yet not so much so as to be overheard by anyone else. "His name was listed as father on more than one occasion."

Antonia rocked back from the table, wide-eyed. "No!"

Mary nodded. What was more, she knew absolutely that it was no rumour. Letty had told her all of the details - Antonia would have a fit if Mary ever told her the other names. Besides, she had seen those children for herself, and not a few of them were paler in skin colour than herself, never mind their features, which so closely resembled her own. "And Sophronia?"

"Still in search of a beau, though I daresay her freshness is beginning to fade."

Said only slightly caustically. Antonia was not the type of woman who was mean to another, even when she had cause, so for her to say such a thing in such a tone; Sophronia must really have been on her last nerve. "How are Uncle Frederick and Aunt Thomasine? Are they well?"

Here Antonia paused, clearly troubled. Mary braced herself for bad news.

"They are...good. As well as can be expected, given all they've been through during the past few months. "

Mary shrugged one shoulder. "I did what I had to..."

"Oh, I know," Antonia reached out and squeezed Mary's forearm. "I know. Your good Captain has a light shining from him that anyone with eyes can see, and you would have been miserable had you married anyone else. I don't think the Glendennings quite understood how important you were to them until you were gone. Sir Frederick took it quite hard, and was not seen at the Club for a few weeks."

Mary was torn between feeling badly for him, and satisfied that her absence caused him anguish. The way he had treated her caused her plenty of anguish! Everything had turned out well in the end, however. For her, at least.

"Your Aunt, I'm afraid, has had no change of heart. If anything, I fear her heart has hardened against you even more."

Well. That was only to be expected. Sometimes Mary felt that she ought to feel sorry for Aunt Thomasine, after all, she was dragged from her comfortable country estate in Oxfordshire all the way to India, and for what? At least that was how Aunt Thomasine had always put it during the interminable long afternoons at the Officer's Club when it was too hot for riding or badminton or anything else but cards. Yes, she had gained three children from the bargain, plus a tea garden and wealth beyond her imagination, as well as the prestige of being married to such a gentleman as Sir Frederick. Wait, why was Mary supposed to feel sorry for Aunt Thomasine?! Flora and Sophronia were everything a woman could hope for with daughters, and Phillip, the eldest child and only son was well into earning a reputation in the Cavalry as a man's man and all that. Poor Aunt Thomasine, burdened with her husband's mixed race bastard niece, along with a successful husband and family. What a terrible life she had!

"Marriage clearly agrees with you," said Antonia, smiling. "It's good to see you so happy."

She was, she supposed.

The rest of the evening sailed without only the most obvious of tacks, namely avoiding Aunt Thomasine and Uncle Frederick, as well as Flora and Sophronia. Thankfully, it was a relatively easy task, and Mary danced twice with John, once with Richard, Antonia's husband of some years, and Lieutenant Creegan, of all people. Otherwise she spend time with Antonia and Vanessa, gossiping and laughing and talking and feeling light and gay and oh, oh so happy.

In the morning John made love to her as if she was the most precious of objects, and she in turn gave her all to him as well. When he left, sated and sleepy, she remained in bed, lazing and enjoying how much she was undoubtedly scandalizing the servants.

For once, she didn't care.

 

~*~

 

At John's shout, Mary jerked upright, blinking hard, her heart pounding. Heavy footsteps in the hallway alerted her to the fact that he was dressed and ready to go out. But, the time...? Glancing towards the shutters, she saw not a hint of light, so it was very early in the morning; no wonder she still felt tired, she hadn't been asleep for very long.

She threw up one hand and turned away when the door opened, the lamplight piercing in its brightness. "What - what's going on?"

"I've got to go," said John, dropping heavily onto the bed. "I've been called to Lucknow."

"Tonight?" protested Mary, rubbing her eyes. "Can't you go in the morning?"

"Listen," he grabbed her forearm and forced her to turn towards him. "I don't want you leaving the house by yourself. I want you to pack a bag and go visit one of your friends, I don't care which one If you can't find anyone, go to Mrs. Seymour's house and tell them you need to speak to her immediately. If she's not at home, go to the garrison and tell them I authorized to go in without me."

Mary shook her head. "John! I couldn't do that!"

"You can and you will," he said sternly, his brows drawn down, his mouth tight. "There are things happening now, tonight, things I can't explain. It's dangerous for any white woman to be alone - "

"I'm not white," she replied, unable to believe what she was hearing. "They're not going to let me in to the garrison, even if some of them know me by sight."

"You'll make them take you," he growled, shaking her a little. "If all else fails, dress like a native woman in a saree. Take down your hair and plait it, wear the saree over your head, conceal your face. If nothing else, get back to Palampur and throw yourself upon the mercy of your aunt and uncle."

"John," she said, beginning to get quite frightened from the intensity by which he spoke. "What's happening? Why are you telling me all of this?"

"You have to trust me, Mary," he said, staring at her.

"Captain sahib - " someone called from the hallway.

John frowned, clearly worried. "I've got to go. Tell me you'll do what I ask."

"Of course I will. But how will you find me?"

He smiled grimly. "Don't worry about that. You promise you'll keep yourself safe?"

Mary nodded, wrapping the sheet more closely around herself. "Should I wait a day or two?"

"No. First light, get yourself dressed and out of here. Don't tell the servants where you're going, in fact, don't take anything but what you normally would to go shopping. Don't give them any indication you'll not be back. Stay with the Europeans and don't take no for an answer. If any of them offer to take you aboard ship, do it. Leave this bloody continent if you have to, just do not stay here and under no circumstances be alone."

And with a rough peck on her cheek and those extraordinary words, he rose and left the bedroom, left Mary to worry not only about his safety, but her own, for now it was clear that what everyone had been talking about for months on end was about to happen, or was happening.

"Be careful," she whispered, long after his departure.

Sleep was out of the question. As soon as she was assured the house was quiet - but not too quiet, for the servants by this time were used to John's late night comings and goings, were accustomed to his being a doctor and being called out to whoever was sick for the night or day. He had left the lamp by the bedside, which was a help. Mary stealthily rose and dressed halfway. She put on a clean chemise and pantalettes and stockings, but left off her stays and boots in order to sit more comfortably and sew her jewelry into the hems of the dress she was going to wear, a sturdy plaid in pale greys and violets.

Right. Time to make her...escape? Was she escaping? Because it felt like she was sneaking out of her own home. Still, John had given her her orders and she would obey as a dutiful wife should.

Mary left the bungalow without speaking to, or seeing either Cook or Housekeeper. Though she was relieved, she felt strange, sneaking out of her own home. Any other day she would simply be going out to visit a friend or do some shopping or take a walk, yet now she felt she was in fear for her life. Given what had happened to poor Miss Walsh, that might not be far from the truth. At least Miss Strivilyn had been saved from having to identify the body. Mrs. MacKay, who had escaped the thugs by sheer happenstance, had actually had the strength of mind and purpose to return to the very spot where she and Miss Walsh had been attacked with the local soldiers patrol, and had easily identified Miss Walsh. In her interview by the Bombay Times, the only description Mrs. MacKay had given was that Miss Walsh had obviously suffered very greatly, and that it was only by her clothing could she be known. Mary had of course seen dead bodies before - it was impossible not to, but by Mrs. MacKay's words, it was clear Miss Walsh had probably been interfered with in some manner or another....but it was implied - not by Mrs MacKay - that Miss Walsh had been interfered with. A horrible fate, and Mary hoped Miss Walsh had not suffered for too long.

Perhaps she was being overly watchful, but it seemed to Mary that the atmosphere was charged. She didn't think it was her imagination that people turned and stared at her as she went past, that there were practically no women on the streets and very few children. She lifted her skirts in order to walk faster, felt the first trickle of sweat down her back and along her hairline. The worst part was that she didn't really know where she was going. Antonia was already gone, as were Mrs. Peabody and Miss Grambs, Vanessa Parker and Miss Strivilyn.

There was no way Mary was going to go to the garrison, either. No matter what John said, she knew well enough she would not be allowed in without him...and that left...well, it left only Mrs. Seymour, who lived in Lucknow year round despite the summer heat. So. Mary took the most obvious streets, the widest streets, the most well known streets, so that anyone would see her and remember that a memsahib traveled mid-morning to see her friends as usual.

In the daylight, Mrs. Seymour's house remained as grand as it had that night now some three weeks past. This time, however, Mary ignored it all to knock firmly on the front door. Surprisingly, no one immediately answered it. She knocked again, glancing over her shoulder to the drive, only to find several men staring back up at her from the street beyond the iron gates. Oh g-d.

Dread in her belly, she turned back to the door and tried to think of what to do next. She didn't dare go back down the drive - those men weren't looking at her for their health, but quite probably to the detriment of hers. She would venture to the veranda and see if anyone was in the back garden. Yes, yes that's what she would do.

Decision made, she tried to stroll around the corner of the house as if she hadn't a care in the world, as if she had heard voices calling to her and was simply going to greet her friends. Now she was sweating in earnest, even though so far the day and indeed the summer had been fairly cool. Everyone had stayed in Lucknow and Delhi later than they normally would have,aand now Mary bitterly regretted not having taken up Antonia's offer. Richard, her husband, wouldn't have minded, Antonia swore, and of course their old companions would be delighted to see Mary again.

Pushing such thoughts from her mind, now that she was out of sight of the street, Mary picked up her skirts fully and ran down the path. Arriving on the veranda, she immediately went to the glass doors, ready to knock.

Perhaps it was fate that stayed her upraised hand.

Mary blinked at the strange sight before her. The glass doors were closed, and beyond them, where normally visitors sat on wicker work sofas and wooden divans and took their chota or chota peg, their afternoon tiffin, played backgammon and chess and Pacheesi, cribbage and Whist, where they read their papers and their books and discussed the Polo results and who had won what at badminton, there on the tiled floor lay Mrs. Seymour, close by, one of her servants. Underneath Mrs. Seymour was a dark puddle, the color of which also stained the turban of the servant.

Mary shook her head, took a single step back. Why...why was Mrs. Seymour on the floor? Had she tripped and fallen? Had her servant slipped, too? She wouldn't be best pleased about the dark stains on her clothing, nor the fresh chips marking the furniture. It was all wrong...so wrong...

There was no point staying here. Mrs. Seymour was not going to be able to help her, no matter how much Mary might need it. No...nor could she leave by the front gate. The garden...there was another access through the garden, however. Mary decided she would go that way, instead, because obviously she couldn't stay here.

With this in mind, Mary ran into the garden, trying to remember exactly where she had seen the gate in question. Vines had been neatly trimmed around it, so if one knew where it was, it was easy to find, otherwise it was simply a matter of stumbling upon it randomly. It took her some time, but eventually the shape of the gate coalesced out of the green, and with a sigh of relief she pulled the lock and opened it, thinking only a moment later that she should have listened to see if anyone stood on the other side of it, waiting for someone like her. Thankfully, she was alone. Closing the gate behind herself, she realized that she had no choice but to go to the garrison. They wouldn't let her in...still, she would be as safe there as anywhere, and if she were to die, at least John would know where to find her body.

Though she was terribly frightened of taking the back streets, Mary felt she had little choice. Dressed as she was - dressed as she was! The kitchen was just along the fence, not far from the mansion proper. For a long moment she waffled, then darted back in to the garden. From there, she carefully made her way to the kitchen, which, judging by the smell of burnt food, had been abandoned. Mary made her way, quickly and silently, to the cook's quarters where she found shalwar and a khameez hanging on a string that crossed the room. Nearly weeping with relief, she hastily unbuttoned her blouse, pulled the knots on the strings of her skirt, petticoat, and hoop, following with the strings of her stays.

Biting her lip as she tried to figure out what to do, something shattered in the main house. Fear leapt into her throat, so she hurriedly stepped into the shalwars, hoping no one would notice she was wearing boots instead of sandals. She didn't bother taking off her chemise, the khameez was long enough to cover it from neck to below her knees, and was long sleeved, besides. There was another crash of something breaking in the main house and that was it, she had to go.

Providence was on her side, for she made it back to the garden gate without any alarm being raised. Not even bothering to pause to see if anyone was on the other side of the gate, she slipped out and into the narrow lane. Orienting herself quickly, she swiftly walked towards the Officer's Club, wrapping the dhathu around her head and shoulders for extra camouflage.

The streets remained eerily quiet. What few people she had seen on her way had now completely disappeared. Thank g-d she was wearing boots instead of her usual slippers. Thank g-d John had told her to prepare for what was coming, or what was happening, whatever that might be.

Some sweaty, thirst inducing hours later, taking this street and that, she eventually she wound up at the garrison. Ignoring the crowd at the main gate, Mary slipped around to the side gate, the one she and John had occasionally used when they stayed out so late the main gate was shut. She was surprised to see only a smaller crowd here, no one she knew, only natives desperate to get inside. There were guards along the top of the walls, bayonets affixed to their guns.

Indians were squatting on the ground, mostly old men, but young wives and children also. Two guards warily eyed them from the inside of the gate, and brought their guns to their shoulders as she picked her way through the little crowd. When she drew close enough, the taller of the two stuck his bayonet through the iron rods, his eyes hard.

"Keep back!" he shouted. "You just stay right there."

Startled, Mary stopped where she was, wringing her hands. "It's me, Mary Watson. John said I should come here!"

"Yeah, right," the other guard said to the first, "Tell us another one."

"Please, would you tell whomever's in charge that I'm here? I'm Captain Watson's wife! Please?"

"You don't look like Captain Watson's wife. His slut, maybe," said the tall guard.

The other one huffed a laugh, but neither seemed inclined to shift.

"What proof have you got?" asked the other.

Mary froze, then whipped off the dhathu. Surely it was obvious she wasn't fully native, even though she was wearing native clothing? It was poor quality, plain green cotton with some threadwork in bright blue along the hem. And it was at that moment that Mary realized she had left behind all of her jewelry, everything she had sewn into the hem of her petticoat in the darkness of the morning, she had left it all behind on the floor of that little room by the kitchen. Oh, g-d.

What little food she had eaten earlier threatened to come back up. Mary put a hand to her belly and took a deep breath in the hopes of staving off the nausea. "Please," she called. "My name is Mrs. Mary Watson, Captain John Watson is my husband, and he told me to come here. He's a doctor, surely someone inside has been treated by him?"

A sudden roar came from the direction of the main gate behind her, and when Mary turned back, the tall guard was gone. Looking over her shoulder once more, she saw a cloud of dust rising, and then the screams began. The people around her stirred uneasily, a few of them getting to their feet.

Mary dared take another step closer to the gate despite the renewed interest from the guards along the top of the wall. Someone on the inside of the compound shouted in English, she couldn't make out the words, and then there was the crack of gunshots that echoed in the narrow alley.

"Mrs. Watson!"

Mary jerked back to the gate, which one of the guards was unlocking. Another man stood next to him, deep in shadow and Mary couldn't tell who it was.

"This way, if you please, hurry!"

Everyone had gotten to their feet by now, and was starting forward. Mary shoved her way past those who had somehow gotten in her way when she wasn't looking, and was grateful to be pulled through by the stranger, who actually looked a little familiar, though she could not place him.

Then she was on the other side, looking at the two guards struggling to re-lock the gate as the natives cried piteously for help in Hindi and Urdu and Pashto and at least one other she did not recognise.

"Mrs. Watson - "

Dizzy all of a sudden, Mary wobbled a bit as she looked up at the gentleman. Abruptly there was a steadying hand on her elbow, and she was brought into the shade of a nearby young tree encircled by a low brick wall. She sat down on it hard, blinking, wondering what to do or say next.

"I'm Captain Drummond, we met a few weeks ago?"

Mary nodded. She couldn't remember the circumstances, but the important thing was that he knew who she was, and now she would be kept safe.

"When did Captain Watson tell you to come here?"

"Early this morning, very early. He said he had to go to Lucknow?"

"Lucknow? Are you sure?"

Mary nodded. "Yes...he said Lucknow. Why? Is it dangerous there?"

Drummond frowned, and there was something in his eyes, a coldness, that scared Mary further. Perhaps...perhaps coming to the garrison was a mistake after all.

"Come with me," he repeated, waiting impatiently for her to get to her feet.

Drummond brought her to an office. "Sir, it's Captain Watson's wife."

The man seated at the desk was stout and old enough to have seen action at in the Gurkha Wars. He eyed her up and down, then coldly said to Drummond, "Speak English?"

Dread truly settled in Mary's belly. "Yes, sir."

"I wasn't aware Captain Watson was married," he said, putting his pen in its holder.

"By the laws of the heart, we are," she answered, steeling herself for the battle that had just begun. "In the eyes of G-d, we are."

He sat back in his chair, looked her dead in the eyes until she began to shiver. "What's your name?"

"Mrs. Mary Watson, sir."

"Mary? An unusual name for a native woman."

"My grandfather was an Englishman, sir. From Oxfordshire."

"Is that so? And how did you end up in here in Cawnpore?"

"I lived my first eight years in Dharamsala before my father died, and my Uncle took me and raised me in Palampur."

"Go on, tell me who your uncle is, then," he said, sounding bored and ready to put her out.

"Sir Frederick Glendenning, sir," said Mary, unable to stop a flush of satisfaction when the man straightened at Uncle Frederick's name, even going so far as to tug down his jacket.

"Well," he said. "That rather changes things. He approved of your...marriage?"

The truth of their marriage was already out, Mary didn't even know why the man bothered to ask, yet before she had a chance to answer, someone knocked on the door twice. It was a soldier, darting a quick glance her way before focusing on the man behind the desk.

"Sir, the 53rd Native Infantry have been caught in the crossfire!"

Drummond started forward until he was even with Mary in front of the desk. "General Wheeler - "

"Sergeant Brown, take this woman and put her with the others. Captain Drummond, with me."

And thus it was that Mary was left with the unhappy Sergeant Brown, who clearly would have just as soon shoved her back out the gate. Nonetheless, he led her to the hospital.

"Mrs. Hillersdon!" cried Brown, peering this way and that.

Mary looked, too, shocked at the sight of the women and children in front of her. There were at least two hundred of them, on the low cots shoved against each wall, sitting, standing, staring. The heat in the room was oppressive, for the first time in the year, summer's heat striking down hard in a promise of what was to come. The smell of sickness was in the air, the peculiar stench of vomit and worse. Mary's stomach turned and for a moment she wasn't sure she could bear being in the room for more than she had to. The look on John's face came back to her, though, and she knew she had to stay.

"Mrs. Hillersdon!" Brown shouted again.

"I'm right here, Sergeant"

Mrs. Hillersdon proved to be a short, blonde-haired woman in a pale blue dress. She looked like the kind of woman who brooked few arguments, and Mary wasn't sure if she should be grateful or not to be in her presence.

There was a hard look to her face, though Mary couldn't tell if it was directed towards herself or Sgt. Brown.

"Ma'am, General Wheeler says you're to take are of this one. Captain Watson's wife."

For the fourth time that day, Mary bore the head to toe scrutiny of an English woman. To Mrs. Hillersdon's credit, she didn't shrink away from Mary.

"Captain Watson? The doctor?" asked Mrs. Hillersdon, clasping her hands together at her waist.

"Yes, ma'am," answered Mary.

Mrs. Hillersdon nodded. "Thank you, Sergeant Brown. You can leave her in my care."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, touching his topee and immediately heading out of the barrack.

"Have you any nursing skills, Mrs. Watson?" asked Mrs. Hillersdon, standing before Mary with the most upright spine Mary had ever seen.

"A few," said Mary. "John made me practice wrapping bandages and such. I'm glad to be what help I can."

"Excellent. As you can see, we have many sick women and children here. The flux has taken hold from the poor food and we are suffering greatly."

"Of course."

"Now, I realize this is a matter of some delicacy," continued Mrs. Hillersdon. "but have you any proper clothing?"

Mary shook her head. "I had to leave it all behind, I'm afraid."

"So many of us did. Well, I suppose that can't be helped. I daresay there will be some who will be quite scared of you, but you'll have to persevere. Do you think you can do that?"

"Of course," said Mary. "I'll do whatever's necessary."

"Good."

Whatever Mary might have said next was drowned out by a sudden tremendous volley of gunfire, followed by the BOOM of cannon and vibration coming up through the floor, which was quite a feat, considering it was paved with stone. Someone screamed, short and shrill, and then children began to cry. It was all very overwhelming, and tears sprang to her eyes. She laid one hand on her chest and tried to take a deep breath. It was easier to do without stays, and yet. G-d willing, John would be safe. For the first time she understood that he might not live, he might not come back to her, and all she wanted to do was collapse in a heap and sob.

"Now is not the time, Mrs. Watson!" snapped Mrs. Hillersdon, small and fierce. "You must help me keep things together, can you do that?"

Mary wasn't sure she could, actually, but she nodded anyway. She would keep busy, and everything would be fine.

"Now, let's get you a pinney and we can attend to the patients."

"I need to wash my hands," Mary blurted to Mrs. Hillersdon's back. John said it was the latest thing in Medicine, and insisted she show him exactly how to do it before she practiced rolling bandages.

Mrs. Hillersdon didn't even bother to look at Mary. "We don't have water to waste on newfangled ideas, Mrs. Watson. You'll make do with what we have.

Mary glanced over her shoulder and was struck by the light through the open door. Amidst the piteous crying of sick children and the sporadic crack of gunfire, it seemed to her that was the last she would see of the world, confined as she was in this stuffy brick building. She put a hand on her roiling stomach and wondered if maybe she was getting sick, too. The food was abysmal; she didn't know how they were going to survive the next few days on as little as they had. No, there were others more ill; she couldn't take what little medicine they had away from them.

As they passed from the main room into one of the smaller bedrooms, there was a long, drawn out sigh-groan from behind the curtains in the corner, where Mrs. Penicuik was labouring to give birth to her first child. Mrs. Hillersdon, mother of nine, was not hopeful for the survival of babe or mother. From what Mary had overheard, Mrs. Penicuik had already been in labour for two days before she came to the garrison, and then, she had walked from her home, for her husband had feared for her safety so much he refused to hire a rickshaw for her. As if walking wouldn't put her mortal danger as it was.

The abrupt silence was deep and profound, and like a bolt of lightning, Mary came to an abrupt realization.

It had been weeks since she had had her monthly visitor.

Weeks.

The strange tightness of her lower belly, how tired she was all the time, her ravenous hunger between the bouts of nausea - she was not ill, she was with child!

Mary covered her mouth, shocked and scared and thrilled all at the same time. When this was over, she would tell John and he would be so pleased.

Yes, this babe would be the first of many, for John was a doctor and would take care of her as no one else would.

She could not wait to tell him.

 

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> ETA: the story [The Fire Inside](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8947705) is a bit o' porn written for Winter Holmestice. I hope you like it.
> 
> This story has consumed my soul for the past six months. To say I've been obsessed with The Raj, with Mary and John and just everything, is an understatement. It's been pretty difficult, writing about a place I've never been and only have passing familiarity with due to living in Britain for a decade, a few Bollywood movies (though I did also use to watch [B4U](http://b4utv.com/corporate/)), and of course, the food.
> 
> My original idea was for Mary to be an English nurse and vivandiere working in the Crimea, where she and John would meet, fall in love, and where she would die. It became clear almost as soon as I started writing, that the Crimea was not going to be where this story took place, nor was Mary going to be English. Unfortunately for her, Anglo-Indians (modern interpretation) became looked down upon in the 1840s or so, just as the East India Company was reaching its zenith. Whereas Anglo-Indians might have been good enough to marry before, now these notably beautiful women were only good for having a fun time before one married a proper English girl. And by English, I mean white.
> 
> In any case, the most notorious massacre of the Sepoy Rebellion* was when 200 women and children were killed in the Bibighar during the siege of Cawnpore, their bodies thrown into a well, to be found several days later. Thus does poor Mary end. Needless to say, the British promptly retaliated, though not with women and children (but what's always written by the victors...?). 
> 
> Top row: Antonia, Sophronia, Flora  
> Middle: Mary Morstan (Merle Oberon)  
> Bottom: Mrs. Seymour, Vanessa Parker, Lettice 
> 
> [](https://postimg.org/image/6hvbf6vyp/)  
> [image post](https://postimage.org/)
> 
> Books I read, in order of outstanding-ness:
> 
> 1) _Women of the Raj: The Mothers, Wives, and Daughters of the British Empire in India_ by Margaret MacMillan. 2005  
>  2) _Plain Tales from the Raj: Images of British India in the Twentieth Century_ by Charles Allen. 1975  
>  3) _Sahib: The British Soldier in India 1750-1914_ by Richard Holmes**. 2005  
>  4) _Begums, Thugs, and White Mughals: The Journals of Fanny Parkes 1822-1846_ by Fanny Parkes. 2002  
>  5) _Wicked Women of the Raj: European Women Who Broke Society's Rules and Married Indian Princes_ by Coralie Younger. 2004  
>  6) _The Complete Indian Housekeeper and Cook_ by Flora Annie Steel and Grace Gardiner. (orig. 1861) 2010. Omg the racism, tho. I mean, I know it's the time period and all, but it's still hard to read.
> 
> There are some video resources on the pinboard.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this particular story. I guess i never realized I wanted to write a romance...
> 
> * one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter.  
> ** His fantastic series 'War Walks' is available on youtube. Highly recommended!


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